


It happened one night

by conchepcion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When did it start? Oh, I suppose it had to be the moment Jim from IT, the friendly commentator on my blog was suddenly revealed to be gay as a biscuit. It sort of comforts me that he ended up not fancying Sherlock, but wanted to blow him up instead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I won't dance

_When did it start?_  Oh, I suppose it had to be the moment Jim from IT, the friendly commentator on my blog was suddenly revealed to be gay as a biscuit. It sort of comforts me that he ended up not fancying Sherlock, but wanted to blow him up instead. There was a slight cosiness in that thought, despite the disturbing situation it manufactured. He played me excellently though, first being all teasing, silly, and nice, but he wasn't. Not one shred. He did play a convincing gay man in retrospect. He sat up watching Glee with me, which should have been the first clue. Anyway, it was by that time, that whenever someone chatted me up, which wasn't often, but surprisingly enough it would happen – I'd start with my own  _deducing_.

I'd know by the instant the person started talking to me it wouldn't work out, which was odd, since I should have figured out quite easily that it wouldn't be Jim and me. Personally, it became my own superpower, my own little secret. Well, it was something. It mean  _he'd_  rubbed off a little, but luckily not a lot. The man just stood there yammering about the Christmas present I was giving to him, when he believed I was giving it to someone else, who I obviously fancied. I was just glad I spoke up despite the agonizing embarrassment, which was new to me. Well, after the  _Jim incident_  – I had to grow some _balls_. I've always had balls. That's why I've got this job. I've always been the clever one, the good one, and when I met him all of that sort of went completely south. I don't know what it is with him that makes me go all funny – I suppose it has to do with his intellect and his eyes. Ok, his arse, ok, he's generally very fit, but it's not like anything's going to happen?

Honestly, as he said – what would he want with a flat-chested, small-lipped, slightly desperate bint who tosses on some sparkly earrings thinking this will make the sexy collar up detective notice her? I'd like to say he wouldn't go for that sort of thing (meaning, well  _sex_ ) hadn't it been for  _Irene Adler_. God, her name just haunts me. I saw her webpage. I had to, you could call it a moment of weakness, but she was stunning. Absolutely irritatingly beautiful and he'd seen her naked. Sherlock doesn't see people naked.  _Naked_ and Sherlock aren't two things that go hand in hand. Wait,  _no_ , they do,  _but you know what I mean_? He walks around oozing of _everything_ , but Mrs Hudson says he hasn't. That's bollocks. He has, because he just has that something. I don't know _, you know_ , it's just there. Obvious to the plain eyes, or maybe it's just me – _mental_  Molly. Wait, this wasn't supposed to be about him! This was supposed to be about me, and my deducing, which is more or less ruining anybody's chances.

Strangely enough I am ok with that by now. The last man I dated did try to blow up people I knew, so it sort of let's me off the hook. Mum's desperate though. I think it's because I turned thirty-two, which isn't the worst age. I've got a lovely flat, I've got a job I love, and I do have a nice life. The fact that the only man in my life is my cat Toby  _doesn't_  mean I feel specifically lonely. I'm not really frightened of it, I'm used to being alone, and alone is what one has some times. I'm just hoping I'll get over him, you know, which would be such a relief. He's just constantly haunting me in my head, like an inner narrator berating me on my stupid crush. I'm supposed to be 32 years old, yet I become this squeaky thing around him, which I'm not. I've been in plenty of relationships, I've done loads of things – I've got papers published, I'm the youngest pathologist in my department and the only female – yet Sherlock Holmes just makes me into this blubbering mess.

Dad would laugh; actually he'd just look at me with raised brows, and try to ask me  _why_. I suppose its easy clinging to the idea that maybe something will happen, but let's be honest – it's not like he thinks I'm at all important? I'm just Molly Hooper to him. He even called me John today, after berating me for having dated Moriarty. I was sort of relived though – mum's been trying to force me on this date with some bloke called Martin. I don't think it'll work out though, I'm actually quite certain it won't work, so I was glad to miss out – despite the way _he_  requested me being present. Bags of chips, gosh, oh, sometimes I just absolutely hate him. Yet he looked oddly sad today. No idea why though, as he obviously didn't want to talk about it. But he looked so much like dad, when dad was trying to keep a brave face with mum. I wish dad were here to give me advice really. He'd tell me to forget Sherlock Holmes, which is of course easier said than done.

* * *

I can imagine lots of settings, actually I have.  _Oh god_  – time and time again the fantasy spiralled in my head, you know. He'd be there, late one evening, waiting, standing close to me, telling me I was important. Of course when he actually went and did that. When he actually said he needed me – I don't know, I just, well didn't answer with that dazed expression I supposed I would, before we started having amazing sex on the counter (only in my dreams). Instead I just said, "What do you need?" Mentally I was applauding myself, this was a big step for me, of course when he said -"You". My brain sort of went all wobbly, and I continued with going "What?" And now he's just here, standing closely in front of me, blue eyes gazing in mine saying, "You're not important to Moriarty. He doesn't think you'll ever be important to me. He's wrong, which is how I'll win this  _game."_

Then he proceeds to inform me that Jim wants him dead, and that he wants to choose the turf. The top of the building as a matter of fact, which makes me blink.

"How are you going to survive that?" Psychologically I'm going,  _shit._

"With  _your_ help," he says, clasping my hands almost slightly manic in his conclusion. I'm just gaping at him slightly uneasily, ignoring the sensation of his warm hands on mine, before getting my strength back. I'm just going to help a man fake his own death. Typical Saturday, you know. The man  _might_ be Sherlock Holmes, but it doesn't make it anymore less – possible. Also mental, but then again when have things ever been less than ordinary around him? "So, you're going to fake your suicide?"

"It isn't certain it comes to that."

"You mean you  _might_  actually die?

"Yes."

"Well, shit," I say before laughing nervously. He looks at me in earnest surprise. I've never said a swear word in front of him before. Not that shit is the  _worst_  in my vocabulary. "But you've got a proper plan, then?" I say in his silence.

"I've calculated the possible turn of events. This is the only thing that makes sense in the grand scheme of things."

"But you'll be alive, after this,  _right_?"

"I will have to be dead for a while. I have to hide, so the others can be safe."

I stare bewildered at his words, and notice that he hasn't released my hands yet. "He will kill everyone else. He will do it, but he also knows that I would take the leap. He just doesn't know you'd be one of those people."

I slip my hands out of his.

"I'll help," I say feeling resolute. Jim wasn't even an ex, but he was definitely being a very memorable date. The whole thing was odd; Sherlock instructing me wasn't a very unfamiliar scenario, but the fact that he asking for my help in general – it was just weird. He needed me for this, or else he couldn't do it. The whole thing was meticulously planned, and I could see from his knitted brows that a certain air of uncertainty lingered on his choice of companion. I certainly proved him wrong, I barely stammered, except if he got _too_  close.

Then daybreak came, the homeless-network sorted out the minor details, and I drove off with his  _dead_ body. I supposed it was the last time I'd see him in a while, you know. I offered him my home, but he of course declined like I supposed he would. Then he walked off, and I had to start to lie through my teeth. To my boss, to my colleagues, to my friends – in the end I would have convinced myself. I had distanced myself with quite expressed disappointment that the man I had admired – was not the man I knew. I'd even convinced John Watson, which was by far the hardest of all the people to convince. I remember first writing my lie on my blog. I was trying to get used to the idea that this was what I felt, and how anguished John was by me. I received a phone call the same day, searing with disappointment.

It was easy, that we didn't know each other so well – I was lucky that way. I could only imagine how Sherlock was, as I sat with the telly on, Toby on my lap, while snuggling up to a cup of tea. He'd probably hidden himself well, but despite it – I could see small parts of the city covered with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes,"  _so did I_. It had just been a month, really, when things started to settle down, or well it had calmed down particularly. Nobody enquired after me at work anymore. It was easy playing the fool – I just acted as if Sherlock was breathing down my neck. Not a very hard task, as that was the last thing that happened before he strode off. So, you could say I hadn't really well thought about him. Yes, I had. A small part of me was expecting him. I knew it was silly of me to even assume he'd show up at my door.

I heard a knock, which I had obviously imagined. I was irrational. The strictly speaking outrageous idea that Sherlock Holmes would come walking into my flat was folly. It was mad, but this did not stop another knock from pressing on the door. I sprinted towards the entrance, expecting grumpy neighbours, or possibly a polite burglar. Instead when I opened the door – a man fell just inside my doorstep. I stared bewildered at the ginger-haired man, who laid semi unconscious with stains of red on his front. Hadn't I recognised him I would have been a bit more distraught. Grabbing hold of him under his arms, I pulled him properly inside, before closing the door shut. I ran for my emergency kit in the bathroom, as he grunted. I ripped off his already bloody shirt, found a great big gash, which was luckily not so deep, but it required stiches.

"Can you move?" I ask him.

His eyes flicker into my direction.

"I _did_  manage to get here," he says rather hoarsely. Still always trying to have the upper hand obviously. I roll my eyes, a gesture quite unlike  _me_ , before he stands up leaning on me so I get him into my bedroom. I would have been a bit more distracted by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in my bedroom. The blood kept me luckily in another mental frame. I could see from his face that he'd been in a fight. What about I didn't know and soon enough he passed out entirely on my bed. I tended to his wounds quietly, and I was luckily not stupid enough to get entirely too engaged with the fact that again he was Sherlock Holmes passed out, without a shirt on my bed –  _in my bedroom_  – in my flat in the middle of the night. When I had stitched him up, and covered up the wound – I noticed that he wasn't dressed in the regular attire. Even his bloodied shirt was different. He looked very normal, hadn't it been for being a bit bloodied up, and past out on my bed. I tucked him in after washing off the blood. I didn't dare to even try to remove his trousers. Then there was the issue of where I was going to sleep. I could see there was enough space on the bed of course, but then again – it just felt odd. I had a sofa bed, so it wasn't any problem, then –

" _Thank you_ ," I hear him mutter under his breath.

I don't know if he's awake, his eyes didn't flicker open, and he's pretty much lying quite comfortably on my bed. I just walk awkwardly away, before spending the rest of the night on the sofa bed.

His thank you haunted me, which of course meant that I couldn't sleep. I kept wondering if he was indeed asleep, which of course made me wonder what he'd been through, and why he'd come here. There were a lot of thoughts being processed through my head. They were mixed in with some idiotic fantasies of him striding into my living room telling me that he wanted me. Sherlock Holmes was not the man who wanted someone, though again I thought I wasn't going to see him again. I thought that if I were to see him he'd be badgering me for something in my office, or nicking body parts, like usual, or just asking me for coffee with one his fake smiles. No, there he was absolutely passed out on my sheets. I didn't know if he would be there when I woke up in the morning, and to be honest he could just disappear before I knew it. I wouldn't put it past him. I'd never expect him to show up though. I'd had so many conversations with Julie about the subject before, and we'd of course always said  _he was the least likely man to ever be in my flat_. However there he was, and he needed me once again. At which I pointedly fell asleep.

When I finally did wake up Sunday morning, I just went into my bedroom, to get to the bathroom, and expected my bed to be empty. Oddly enough it wasn't, I almost took a double take when I recalled the previous night. He was still asleep it seemed. Obviously tired from what he'd experienced. I stared for a moment, something I'd avoided the night before. He had a bruise on his face, a cut on his lips, some part of his chest was showing, which was covered with the bandages I had put. I could see some blood seeping through. I'd have to change them when he woke up. It was peculiar, though. Here he was ginger, and looked entirely different because of it. His otherwise pale complexion was tanned and slightly freckled. Despite his injuries, he looked good, which aggravated me. I was supposed to get over him, and it sort of helped not having him around. Despite the reason as to why he wasn't there. He was trying to ruin Moriarty's network. Just in case, if he returned – the others weren't going to be hurt because of him. He really did care, which made me care more.

"Molly, you are staring," he said out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes still shut.

_Fuck._

"Just  _deducing_ ," I say, before disappearing into my bathroom, albeit a bit more breathlessly than needed. You can't really stare at a shirtless man lying in your bed without consequences. Of course it could have been worse. He knew I liked him. At this point there was not even one chance I was going to hide it.  _Not that I'd ever been good at hiding it before._  This time I wasn't even going to pretend anything else, and all of a sudden the precious amount of fear that had overwhelmed me when he entered –  _was gone_. Oh, now I was in trouble.

I suppose he'd expect me to square my shoulders when I got out of the shower, and flush when I entered my bedroom looking for things to wear. I didn't. I barely looked at him, as I nabbed some knickers, and clothes, before disappearing inside again to change. He hadn't moved from his position on the bed, but somehow I felt his eyes searing on the back of my head. I was probably imagining it though. He didn't give me the sort of impression of caring if a woman was walking scandalously around him really. I wore my robe, which was soaked through. I glanced at him once, but I did not catch him staring. I was glad for that, I admit, because it relieved me from believing there would be any tension of his staying. All the tension that existed between us was just in my head. However he was probably going to leave as soon as he was on form again, which shouldn't take long. When I finally did get dressed, emerging from the bathroom, hair soaked, I took to changing his bandages without him asking. I could feel him reacting to my touch, but not saying anything. I had expected him to try and fight me off, but he just kept silently moving when required so I could tend to him.

"I might not be the best on stitching somebody up though, but this will heal quite nicely," I say, not sure if I am talking to him or myself, while I cover him up.

"You did fine," he says after silently observing me.

I look at his him for a moment, our eyes meeting, and for once I'm not shifting in his gaze. I know that gaze, that's just how he is.

"What happened?" I ask, the question coming out faster than I had hoped.

"I  _underestimated_  someone," he just says, before standing up from the bed, and I hand him a black shirt I've been keeping in my closet for a while. He eyes it and me. He knows by just looking at it obviously, that there's a story to that shirt, but I just look at him sheepishly. He's probably figured it out.

"You're not going to tell me more, are you?" I ask, sitting on the bed, looking at his back, as he puts on the shirt.

"The less you know, the better," he says buttoning his shirt, his back still to me.

"Not that I  _don't_ like surprise visits in the middle of the night – it's just I'd like to be warned -  _somehow_ ," I say, as he hasn't turned around, with his hands in his pocket. It's odd seeing his hair all wavy and ginger. I have to admit.

"I'll text you," he says, glancing back at me, before disappearing entirely. He's sad and happy at the same time. I know why though.

To begin with, I sit up some nights. I know it would be better to have some sleep. I don't expect him to come to my place beaten down again, but somehow I still await him. He doesn't show up. I make excuses that it's because I want to watch whatever images are flickering on the screen. Except my eyes often end up on the door. In the end when he doesn't show up, I berate myself; I hate myself, and end up going to bed early the next night. I finally meet Martin, who isn't actually that bad, despite being pestered by mum to date him, as he's the son of "Martha, you know Martha my dear? They were our neighbours for years when you were a kid," They weren't, but I let her have it. He's ginger, which I find  _distracting_ , but he's funny. He's positively harmless and kind, which is a change.

For some odd reason, he enjoys my company, and I'm being less of an idiot. Being less of an idiot by stopping my inner deducing, or well  _trying_  is the word. Martin and I schedule another date, and I find that he's the one who's the stammering idiot, which causes me to kiss him, before walking off. He just turns a shade of red, before grinning and leaving. I lock myself into my apartment, turn on the lights and catch sight of the black shirt strung up on a chair. I end up walking around the apartment looking for him. He's not here. I smell the shirt. He's even cleaned it. I sigh, exasperated with myself, before hiding it in my closet again.


	2. Baby it's cold outside

The shirt is in the back of the closet, I buy more clothes, and in the end I barely see it besides the silky white tops, red ones, and jackets. I catch glimpses of it once in a while, but I ignore it. I go on dates with Martin, who at the beginning is silly. He is slightly eccentric, with long limbs that he uses to gesture wildly talking about things he enjoys. He's a painter, which is probably why I find him unconventional. He's not analytical at all, for he goes solely after emotion, which is different. Well, of course, he doesn't just go after his heart, but you know. Some people have their hearts on their sleeves, and well, he suits me more or less. I smile more, I can't help it, and work becomes lighter than usual – dead bodies aside. I'm vexed at mum. She's finally got one right, and all of my assumptions on his character are wrong. I assumed he would continue being the bubbling fool, he wasn't, and I was convinced he wouldn't sway me at all. He did. The silly becomes serious; our hands clasped, and him pointing out the stars. Me laying my head on his shoulder, as we sit in the springy grass talking about our childhood.

I feel guilty though. I shouldn't be _happy_. Not really, not now, because he's out there. I don't know where, despite a month passing by, and I feel like such an idiot, but I can't help it. I've got Martin who grins, who chuckles, and tells me I'm lovely. I'm not flat chested, thin-lipped or an idiot with him. I'm me, and more me than I've been in years. Yet, John Watson strides once again with his cane, and moves from Baker Street, because he just can't cope. While I have private jokes with Martin. Martin who kisses me, and we sleep in my bed innocently. I'm not ready. I haven't even told him about the shirt, I just couldn't. We dance around the topic and I avoid it heatedly. He says that I'm a very private person, and I concur that I'm not. I'm really not, but it's just one of the few things I've always kept to myself.

Everyone knew I fancied Sherlock. Well, except Sherlock, because I'd thought that if everyone knew I'd get over it. Everyone knew I liked Martin, because then maybe I'd properly believe it. I do like Martin. I like the way he makes me laugh, I like how he can get overly excited if the right track plays on the radio, or the way he makes ice cream from scratch. Then, one night, I just know, by the tingling sensation in my stomach. _I'm ready._ We're standing outside my door; his hands are on my waist, and with a smile on his face he whispers, "Can I come in?" I'm about to elicit the happiest of yesses, when I feel my phone vibrating. I'd ignore it, of course, hadn't it been squashed just between us, as I'd previously tucked it in my bra of all places.

"That's an interesting spot," Martin says eyeing me, as the vibration plays off on us both. I giggle and give him a quick peck, as I try to wedge it out seductively. We end up having to separate, and wedging anything out of ones bra is less than seductive. I had hoped it wouldn't be needed, considering, it would be worse if it fell out of my bra  _during_. It might look like I was trying to make my chest look bigger somehow.

"Every girl's private pocket," I say cheekily grabbing it with a smirk.

My grin fades the moment I read the text. You know he said he'd text, right? Of course, at the moment I decide to shag my boyfriend. After some weeks of just _constant_ foreplay with the reasonable amount of "Let's wait," then he texts, and what _does_  he text? Oh,  _he_  doesn't text the humble "Can I stay at yours?" No, not even remotely close to a very long text either. Not the -  _I'm sorry to be a bother, but can I please ask you for a favour?_  - Like regular people do.

No,  _this is Sherlock Holmes_ , and Sherlock Holmes he texts -

_I'm in your flat._

And the classic –

_Get rid of him._

I look all shocked on my phone for a moment. I glance at Martin's hopeful face, and his hands are stuffed nervously in his pockets. I know it'll sound odd if I blurt out "Let's go to your place," as a suggestion this late in the game – I've not mentioned anyone staying in mine either. Oh, I'm sorry, did I not mention? I've got a ginger-haired brother with cheekbones. Yes, he does look a lot like that famous detective. The family have a good laugh about it. He's just going to be staying at my place. Oh, why? Well, you know. Family and all – let's just go to my bedroom, right? Being an only child makes everything less believable. Not that Sherlock being my brother would be believable either I've got to think quickly, so –

" _God_ , it's work. They need me," I say, with a hopefully realistic portrayal of an irritated face.  _It better be_. Martin looks devastated. "I'm so sorry, they are under-staffed as  _usual_ ," I add half-anguished, almost sweat on my brow. Luckily it's happened before, so it isn't the worst of lies. I feel terrible all the same.

"You're worth the wait," he says chuckling, and I almost hate him. I almost hate him for being so perfect, as he gives me a kiss goodbye. He even suggests paying for a fair if I need a taxi. I decline, and say I've got to drop some things in the flat. He just gives me another long kiss saying "Till next time." I really do hate him. He wanders off, and I shakily unlock my flat door. I enter the flat, which is covered in darkness until Sherlock turns on a lamp. He's sitting on the sofa bed, and it's obvious that he's claimed the spot. I look at him, purse in hand, as I unintentionally slam the door behind me. I don't want to seem dramatic. I'm really not trying to, except I just can't accept this so very easily.

"When I meant a text. It  _might_  possibly have been a better occasion to have told me -  _before_ I was on my door-step with my boyfriend?" I say almost without breath. He looks at me for a moment looking almost genuinely surprised. This is a facial expression I'd like to record in my personal journal. I'd like to have this one. This one is Molly Hooper's.

"There wasn't any time," he says.

"There had to be. Since you had time to text. R _ight_  at the moment he asked whether or not-," I stop mid-sentence. He quirks a brow where he sits ginger and tanned.  _Fantastic_  timing he had really. I'd give him an award, hadn't I wanted to throw my purse on his face. That and the fact he got into my flat, without breaking down the door. I had thought the security levels were good enough, but then again no challenge is big enough for the  _great_  Sherlock Holmes. He probably already figured out all my passwords, by just looking at me.

"I thought your reaction was more believable now. Instead of sending you a text an hour ago, when you'd have to make a lie too big to be convincing," he says, as I settle my purse on the table in front of him, before sitting down in a chair. He's just wearing a white shirt and a pair of jeans - very un-Sherlock of him. His gaze is unreadable now.

"You could have had a lamp on, you know. There's no need for dramatic effect," I say after a moment of quiet contemplation. I almost laugh on the thought of him sitting in complete darkness in my flat. Does he do this often? He probably sees it on my face, the red wine more or less, which I had one too many glasses of.

"I didn't want to interrupt your  _date_ ," he says, and you can see he is scornful about the idea. Last time we talked of my dating life he spoke quite mockingly of how I shouldn't date anyone at all, and here we are. I've got a boyfriend and now he's finally decided to take refuge in my home; perfect bloody timing.

"I don't think it would have made a lot of difference," I say half-sulking in my seat. I don't really want to give the impression that he's ruined my night, but I'm doing a terrible job at it. I blame the wine.

"You could have noticed. It might have unsettled you and your date would have been itching to be a  _hero_ ," he says with a quick smile. I wonder for a second what he thinks about Martin, what he's deduced about him, for he looks for an instant almost a bit –  _exasperated_. Or maybe that's just his face.

"I thought you weren't going to come here," I say, removing my earrings. I'm trying to keep a conversation, without sounding like he's ruined everything. He's not _ruined_ anything. Things are just put on hold.

"Change of plans. I'm needed in London, but I need to stay low," he says.

"Oh, so you'll be living here, then?" I ask, despite knowing the answer already. I'm just hoping he'll answer differently.

He looks at me with knitted brows.

"You offered, I recall."

"Yes, I just supposed that it might be  _dangerous_ ," I say putting emphasize on the last word, feeling like a tremendous git. What am I saying? Of course he knows it is, and he wouldn't be here if it really were.

"No one knows you're involved. I ensured of that," he says. I know he means that, I know I'm safe, but it doesn't make me any less cross. This is the wine talking _and_ thinking.

"Right,  _well_ , then. The sofa is yours; food is in fridge if you need it, and I hope you brought clothes? I've only got the one shirt," I say quite business-like. I can see from his eyes that he's sincerely stunned, as I walk into my bedroom getting him bedclothes from the cupboards. "We can pretend you're related to me  _somehow_ ," I say tossing him the sheets and pillow.

"I am going to avoid being seen walking out of the flat," he just says setting the items aside. So, this is more than one day, then, obviously. Not just one day, since he's going to go in and out of the flat. Maybe I can make him hide in the bathroom, while we – no,  _no_ , don't. Don't _even_  go there. Wine might make me a bit tipsy, but I'm not even going to  _touch_  that topic.

"You're bound to make some noise though during the day. I can't blame everything on Toby," I say, as Toby runs forward greeting me by my ankles. Sherlock looks with distain at him. Not a cat-person, obviously. Martin likes cats. He loves them actually.

"I can be quiet," he says, and for a moment I realize how difficult it must be for him. He's here, of all places, when probably most of all – he wants to be with anyone else entirely. He doesn't go freely. He has to go here, to my place of all places. To the world he is dead - all except me. I put on a hurried smile, for I see him observing my face.

"I'm going to give you a name. I'll call you  _Benedict_ , from " _Much ado about nothing"_. Well, I'm knackered. I'm going to bed," I say to him beaming broadly scratching Toby behind the ears, while putting on a theatrical yawn. He eyes my bookshelf, obviously seeing the copies frayed appearance. I look at his face, which is unreadable, as Toby tags along when I disappear into the bedroom.

I feel _guilty_. Except I wasn't at all, I knew that he wouldn't want to talk about it, not really. He is not the man for the long emotional conversation, or sobbing on anybody's shoulder. He could fake that sort of thing like the best of them. If he wanted to talk about it -  _he would_. So, I just tried falling asleep, but I heard him typing on the outside of my bedroom door. He's obviously found use of my laptop already. I shift to my side, finding Toby lying on the spot to my right.

"Can't you tell him to type more quieter?" I beg him. He just licks my hand, before licking his paw. I frown. I hear the typing stop. Sherlock obviously heard me, cat-like qualities he has. I always liked to assume he'd be an excellent cat, which was why Toby almost was stupidly named after him. Then I realized that he might show up, and how abysmally awkward wouldn't that be? At that point there was a less than zero chance, and now  _here_  he was. Sherlock Holmes in my flat, crashing on my sofa. The typing began again. I snorted, despite myself, causing the typing to pause, before continuing. This was how it was going to be? Sherlock Holmes keeping me up all night - instead of my boyfriend. My boyfriend who'd now start wondering why he wouldn't get invited into my flat anymore? Well, it would probably just be a week, or something. Can't be more than that. He's  _Sherlock Holmes_. He doesn't need to hide in anyone's flat, at least not mine. I could just go to Martin's cold studio for a - quick – _err_  - shag. Oh, I hate planning that sort of thing in my head.  _Now_ , every chance of spontaneity is ruined due to the fact he's here. He's here in my flat. A thing I've been dreaming about for years, and what are I thinking of right now? Of other places he could stay. I'm a horrible friend really.

I take a deep sigh, before turning to my left. Of course I could just, like any other normal human being,  _try_  to talk to him. What will the conversation be about? I'll ask if he's ok, he'll lie, to satisfy me, and I'll end up shuffling my feet awkwardly. The imaginary discussion I have in my head with him is much better than the actual discussion would have been. I end up turning to my right again, punching my pillow into place. The bedroom door abruptly opens. He's standing there looking at me expectantly with raised brows, as he holds open the door.

"What is it?" he asks. I can see he's having problems with keeping his voice calm.

I look at him in half-astonishment. All those times I would have given half the world for having him storming into my bedroom in such a manner. They resemble closely to those stupid novels with damsels in distress and the strong brave men who save them. I definitively did not need saving. In this case I was saving his arse, by letting him stay. His arse that was –  _wait_ – what?

"Nothing," I reply obviously lying.

"I can hear you sighing Molly," he says quirking a brow.

I look at him rather irritated. I hate that he gets me entirely. Does he need to be so observant? Well, then he wouldn't be as equally interesting, I suppose. He's just staring at me waiting rather impatiently on my answer.

"I can hear your typing," I say after a while.

He gives me a brief nod, before shutting the bedroom door again. I get quite happy on the fact that he's being considerate, until I hear the typing continue.  _Well_ , this was definitively going to be interesting.


	3. Ain't I good to you

I could barely lift my head off the pillow. The pounding sensation of my head hits me - _obviously_  a glass too many. I've never been fond of wine, really. Especially red wine, but Martin convinced me. _God_ , Martin had to be a bit oblivious last night. He let's me go to work after drinking? Yes,  _I was lying_ , but who let's anyone handle corpses tipsy? Of course I'd probably, _if_  I actually had work I would go and get myself several cups of coffee. I've gone to work with some glasses on my back, but then again – not after so much, then again I've sobered up quite quickly. Oh,  _wait_. I almost forgot. Shit. How can I forget Sherlock Holmes residing in my flat? The fact that he kept me up all night,  _well_ , almost – I did fall asleep at some point. I don't know when, but I was happy for it.

But  _Sherlock Holmes is in my living room_. He's my new unexpected flat-mate with  _the typing hands_ , as I called him during the duration of the night, while thinking disturbing thoughts about him. The thoughts would go from "Can't he please stop? What is he doing on it anyway? Nobody even read his blog back in the day. Well, except me, and how exciting is tobacco ash anyway?" to "It's one in the bloody morning! Does he  _never_  sleep? Is this the point where my vampire fantasies weren't indeed fantasies, but indeed true? God, I hope not." You see, I'd love to pretend I was endeared with this. I'd love to still be infatuated with his mannerisms. I'd love to be over the moon, over the fact that he's in my flat, and all that, but then again I cannot forget the fact that  _he's a git._

He didn't come barging in anymore after the first time, despite my sighs, and it was apparent that he just needed to know what was going on. Typical him.  _Typical_ me of believing he'd grown more sense after his faked suicide. Any sympathy I had for him was washed away with the sense that he was a git -  _a git who typed_. Luckily I fell asleep at some point, but I could still hear the small hard decisive taps of the keyboard in my head, haunting me.

One would suppose after the heart-felt honesty that he came with two months ago – that he  _might_ have tried to change, or  _maybe_  that was just one of those moments I was lucky to have caught. I couldn't magically suppose we'd both become great chums and laugh gaily of his past-ridiculous behaviour. Sherlock was Sherlock. He wasn't anyone else. He was  _especially_  not Martin. I don't expect Martin would ever badger me to stay late nights at work to help him. He would never give me compliments just so I could do things for him. He would not make me fetch him coffee or whatever was his fancy. He would also actually be grateful for all of these things _, if_  I were to help him. No, Martin was definitively not at all like that. Martin was no Sherlock Holmes.

Martin had also obviously texted me a few times to cheer me up  _while I was at work._ Who is that nice? Really, who is that sweet? I grin at the silliness of his texts, until the most recent one in particular startled me –

_I came to visit you at work, in the middle of the night._

_A bit mad I know._

_You'd left obviously._

_Some bloke Benedict was there though._

_He's staying at yours – how come you didn't say?_

**Holy fuck.**

I wrench the covers off me, reluctantly pushing my body out of bed, limbs obeying ever so slightly, as I trudge into the direction of the living room phone in hand. One just needs to follow the sound of the never-ending typing. The typing that evidentially stopped at some point, for whatever reason, but not for me to fall asleep.

"You - _met_  - Martin?" I say standing in the doorway glaring at him. He looks up from my laptop with the innocent of expressions.

"Yes."

"I thought you weren't leaving the apartment, but you were at Bart's.  _Bart's_  of all of places, isn't that a bit - _reckless_?"

I can hear how stupid my question is the moment I've uttered it. Sherlock Holmes doing something not reckless.  _Well, that was an idea._

"I have gotten in there for years Molly. Besides I needed a couple of things. It was in the middle of the night, and security has always been a bit careless there. I did go in a disguise, so there are no worries there," he says continuing with his typing.

I caught sight of the various cardboard boxes that seemed to have cropped up covering my flat's floor. I see a microscope peeping through, clothes in another, and various odd objects – even his violin. I'm distracted for a second wondering how he got a hold of his old things. I thought Mrs Hudson gave them away. Nevertheless -

" _You met Martin and told him you were living here_?" I say, this time a bit more with force, as I've regained some of my strength, despite the hangover.

He looks at me for a moment, wrinkle between his brows, as if he's just figured something out. I raise a brow waiting for his reply.

"We might have grazed the subject. I thought anyway we'd already agreed upon the story," he says quirking a brow at me, before directing his eyes to the laptop again. The laptop that is horribly tempting to fling out of the window at the moment.

"The story,  _god_ , no. Now he thinks I'm a liar," I say half-anguished. I'd told Martin about all my friends already, which weren't many. Now I wasn't even giving him a chance to warm up to this  _new stranger_ , who he had the unfortunate event of meeting alone. This  _new stranger_  who most likely was going to be the end of our entire relationship – or well – not that he hadn't ruined any of my other dates before. Those were my own fault however.

"It is really  _poorly timed_  of you to have a boyfriend, Molly."

I snort derisively. Relationship advice from Sherlock Holmes is no relationship whatsoever. I wonder how John Watson copes.

"I didn't plan it to happen," I say irritated, seating myself in a chair, continuing to sulk in his general direction.

"He brought you some flowers," he says calmly, eyes still on screen.

I stand up halfway from my seat, looking around to spot any bunch of flowers, but there are none. Sherlock looks at me, as if I should already know where they are.

"I disposed of them," he adds. "They interfered with a quick experiment I had in your lab."

I should have known really. I stare at him blankly, seating myself properly down again. This was how it was going to be. Toby was an easier person to be around, but then again Toby is a cat. I see him running around on the floor obviously interested in Sherlock's boxes. I just observe quietly, before trying to, as humanely as possible -

"Sherlock, you can't just go on -  _doing things like this_. No wonder people are writing "I believe in Sherlock Holmes," everywhere," I say sighing loudly in my chair, halfway falling out of it, with my phone still clasped in my hand.

I don't really know what to properly text Martin.  _Oh yes, unexpected handsome ginger visitor._ You know that friend I didn't mention whatsoever. Since I said I didn't really have any close friends who were male? I'm friends with this _one_  bloke though. His name is Benedict. How do I know him?  _Oh, you know_. He's going to stay in my place though. Oh, why does he never leave the flat? He faked his suicide months ago, you see. It's a funny story really.

"Well,  _your_  boyfriend did not recognise me. If he has any resemblance to the rest of the population – I don't think  _we_  need to worry," he says with a quick smile walking off to the kitchen fetching a cup of coffee.

I stare at his cup, practically scowling at him, as he drinks it in. He said "we" again, when did he start using "we". We never were a "we". Well, of course when I helped him. Oh god not  _that_  again. Why does my mind always venture in that space? Yes, I helped him. We are friends.  _We're friends_. That's the "we"  _we_  are. I should just shut up, shouldn't I?

"What _else_  did you say Sherlock?" I ask him, as he sits in the sofa now.

His focus isn't on the laptop for once. I glance at it, and just hope he deletes the Internet history. I'd rather not know whatever he's doing, though I don't think he's looking up naked women.

"Nothing of importance. I just made a good cover story," he says taking a sip of his coffee. "He's gullible enough to eat the story up."

"He texted me about it," I say frowning. Martin wasn't that stupid no, despite it being Sherlock Holmes. Well, he didn't recognise him. To be honest I wouldn't entirely be certain if it was him, hadn't it been for the fact that I'd stared on his face too many a times.

"I expected that much. I couldn't give away everything. You've got to fill the  _blanks_."

"The  _blanks_?" I could only imagine.

"How we know each other, Molly,  _do keep up_ ," he says looking irritated. It's too early in the morning for me to make up stories. I laugh rather hoarsely.

"I am your ex after all," he adds, causing me to turn my laughter into a proper cough.

" _My ex_?" I say after a moment of blinking at him stupidly. "My  _ex –ex – ex-colleague or ex-boyfriend_? Sherlock, what  _the hell_  did you tell him exactly?" For a flash it seems that he's greatly amused by my reaction, except that hint of a smirk turns into a serious expression.

"I had to think quite quickly to be honest. So I mentioned that I was an old boyfriend.  _Since_  he seemed to be under the impression that you had  _no_  male friends-," he says picking up one of the cardboard boxes putting it on the sofa.

"Yes, because exes _always_  come around for a cup of tea," I say scathingly. My head suddenly feels hot. "Especially to stay in their ex-girlfriends flat for a week, because that is the  _best_  place to be."

"You left me no choice."

"You  _could_ have asked me to get those things in the morning. You  _weren't supposed_ to leave the flat in the first place. If you  _were_  I wouldn't suppose the first place you'd go - would be the place you toppled off in the first place," I say in clipped tones. "You are supposed to be this extraordinary brilliant man, but you've managed to muck everything up -  _now_  Martin thinks you're my ex living in my flat. You didn't even need to tell him that –  _you could have lied_. You lie all the time, to me, to my face,  _constantly_."

Most likely about needing me too.

"Are you finished?" asks Sherlock looking at me appraisingly. I'm standing in the kitchen now, looking a bit crazed, my hair is all over the place, but I do not care. I just shrug for a moment, feeling almost a bit weepy. First real proper bloke in my life is now convinced I'm some mad woman who invites her exes to stay over.

I'm wondering what he's going to say that will mend this – what will fix this – there's  _nothing_  that will fix this. At this point, I'm still mental Molly, living with a cat in my flat, but now with Sherlock Holmes as my roommate.

"I told him I was gay," he says after a moment of silence.

It takes me a minute to adjust to the information. Sherlock Holmes –  _gay_? Well, the thought had of course crossed everyone. Even mine from time to time, but then again –  _no_ , not really. John and him weren't  _you know_  having sex. He'd never take cases if he were getting shagged; I liked to assume that before. Of course maybe he actually was gay, and this was his confession.

"You  _did_?" I say half-astonished gaping at him.

He doesn't look as pleased as I do though.  _Well_ , obviously not gay then.

"Yes. I doubt that Michael needs to be at all worried that  _Benedict_ will try to win you back." For a moment he looks at me oddly, I could have  _sworn_ , no. The hangover is making me delusional.

"Martin-," I correct him grinning quite broadly. He just raises his brows.

" _Don't_  invite him over though," he says. I can see on his face that it's a loosing battle. I just shake my head a little, before saying rather quietly "So,  _I_  turned you gay, then?" Sherlock looks at me in genuine surprise. "That answers my question more or less," I say, before walking inside my bedroom slamming the door in my wake.


	4. Can't we be friends?

_I turned him gay._  He's not surprised I turned him gay, that's for sure.  _Yes_ , I didn't  _really_  turn him gay. He's not gay, but  _Benedict's_  gay. Or, well, Benedict's not real. God,  _what_  am I talking about? He's not gay and he's not a Benedict either. Though Martin's convinced of it, and really likes him. Not in the Jim Moriarty wants him kind of way. Not that of a man with tinted eyelashes sort of way either. More in the "He's super-nice," I don't think anyone's used the term super-nice about Sherlock Holmes before. I've heard several other synonyms, but never  _super-nice_. I can only imagine him posing as Benedict - this more fashionable, charming, person, which is how Martin talked of him as. I was genuinely surprised. He wasn't trying to scare Martin off, which was something I had expected. Well, he was trying to be a gay man, and he was also trying to be someone else.

Of course despite the reassuring phone-call from Martin, I didn't feel like staying in the flat –  _what_  were we supposed to talk of again really? Sherlock was just using my flat anyway. I doubt he really wants to have any sort of conversation with me. He might lie that we both dated in college, and then he realized who he really was with me, but then again - none of this is real. Of course if there's one woman who can turn him gay – _it's me_. Oh, god, don't. Don't start. None of this is real _remember_? So, anyway, you might say I ran off quite quickly to meet Julie for a coffee. Despite being ahead of schedule by two hours, which gives a girl some reasonable amount of time to think. The conclusion is – I'm mad. I'm completely and utterly delusional. He might have given me a brief compliment on my attire, but it was obviously to be  _nice_. Last night I had my tongue stuck down in Martin's throat. I shouldn't even be spiralling into this direction. He's obviously compensating for the fact that I was hysterical in the living room, obviously, right? I wish I knew what he was thinking. Oh, there's Julie.

She sits down, takes one look at me, and says, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say twirling my cup in its place.

This is my fifth cup. I can see the waitress eyeing me.

"Weren't you on a date with Martin – _oh_ – was it that bad?" she asks making a grimace patting my hand sympathetically. I almost laugh.  _Sex_ , really, who can think about sex, right now? Of  _course_  I can, but I just can't imagine Martin and me. Wait, what? Yes, of course I can. I imagine it'll be absolutely wonderful. Absolutely!

"No, I had to work," I lie easily. It's a simple lie. I've got to keep it up. "So, no time for that," I add with a chuckle.

"No wonder you look cross," she says grinning ordering herself a coffee, from the waitress, who eyes my cup as well. I just ignore her.

"There's someone new and irritating in our department though," I say giving a loud sigh. At least I can talk about him,  _without_  talking about him. It's a relief I have to admit.

"Oh, who?" she asks.

"Some chap named Benedict," I say, "He's just so infuriating. He uses my things, keeps asking me for favours, and is just horribly maddening to be around."

"He's basically a reincarnate of Sherlock Holmes, then?" says Julie giggling.

I almost spit out my coffee, before controlling myself.

"Basically, it means,  _you_ fancy him," she adds winking at me, while I attempt to recover.

"No, I don't!" I snap feeling a flush of red spread on my face.

Julie just laughs and looks at me in disbelief.

"Molly, you were  _just_  the same when you fancied Sherlock. First there came the round of denial, and then all of a sudden you confessed you found him attractive. Though this time something might actually happen," says Julie grinning. "Of course I suggest getting rid of Martin first."

"I don't  _fancy_  Benedict -  _anyway_  he's gay," I say sharply.

"He is? So he told you he was gay?" she asks looking at me curiously. Obviously she doesn't believe that for a second.

I just make a face, before sipping more coffee, directing the conversation into another realm. I am  _not_  fancying Sherlock Holmes another time. I admit I find him attractive yes, and it is distracting to have him in my home, but I do not have a crush on him. If I did indeed have a crush on him I wouldn't be heading over to Martin's right now, wouldn't I? Of course I wouldn't be here, of course not. I'd be at home fawning over him, and trying to be sexy, which I won't. That is ridiculous behaviour anyway. I'm not doing this to make him jealous either. This one is for me.

The moment Martin opens the door, I grin at him cheekily.

"Err - Molly- hello," he says looking a bit startled to see me there. "I didn't know you were coming." I raise my brows seductively, before giving him a long kiss, but he's not responding. I separate from him, and see that someone is sitting in his living room – on his sofa – oh  _yes_. If your mind went  _there_ , then you know more than me.

"Benedict!" I say overly enthusiastic, not trying to sound like I'm at all mad. Sherlock is indeed sitting on Martin's sofa, in Martin's home.

"Why are you here?" I ask, through gritted teeth, before sending Martin a dazzling smile. Martin looks sort of awkward where he stands between  _Benedict_ and me. Sherlock is sending me a smile I've never seen before, quite the toothy one, behind a pair of specks he's acquired for his  _role_.

"I was going to text you. The thing is I went to your flat, and you weren't there, but Ben was."  _Ben_  now, they've shortened their names now. Is this the point where Sherlock is going to start calling my boyfriend for "Mart" or "Marty"?

"So, you brought him  _here_  – how very nice, then," I say feeling sick to the stomach. This was too much. This was absolutely _too_  much. I was going to shag my boyfriend, but instead I find Sherlock residing on  _his_  sofa. Why was Sherlock on his sofa? I can  _understand_ why he was on mine, but Martin's sofa was definitively not the sofa to be at.

"Well, I wanted to show him some of my paintings," says Martin grinning quite happily, directing my attention to the gigantic paintings resting by the window. I stare at them trying to be enthusiastic that he's indeed painting, since he said he had been struggling a while – until I spotted the bottles of beer on the table. Sherlock Holmes doesn't drink. I glare for a second at Sherlock, as Martin turns his back – Sherlock just looks at me mildly amused quirking a brow in reply. Martin returns his face to me again, and I put on a big smile "Those are amazing!" I can feel my face hurting, as I step towards them, and admire their vibrant colours. I'm not really sure what they are supposed to be. "You get what I'm trying to say, right?" he says to me, and I nod quite happily several times, before throwing daggers into Sherlock's direction.

"Yes, of course, so, well, err, isn't it time for you to leave _Ben_  – I thought you had that  _thing_?" I say looking quite cross.

"No, my schedule is all cleared up," he says in a very un-Sherlock manner. I've never seen him so  _nice._ What is going on?  _Well_ , two can play this game.

"Really,  _oh_ , right, but  _Nigel_  called again. He seems quite desperate to speak to you," I say sitting down besides him on the sofa patting him on the leg, which turns out to be more of a slap to be honest. Sherlock catches on quite quickly.

"I don't really want to talk to him, right now," says Sherlock putting on quite the realistic portrayal of someone who'd had his heart broken. I look at Martin awkwardly for a moment, before standing up, and whispering to him "You couldn't let us be alone for a mo, could you? I just need to talk to him alone for a sec." Martin just nods sympathetically, takes his bottle of beer taps it on Sherlock's, before walking off in the direction of his bedroom. A route I do wish to make with him. I turn quite hastily to look at Sherlock, who looks at me from his sitting position on the sofa. He's reverted into himself again.

"What the  _hell_  are you doing?" I whisper furiously.

"He came to the apartment," he says stating the obvious.

" _So_ , you could just have sent him off," I say gesturing wildly.

"He was going to wait for you," he continues calmly.

"So?"

"He started to fiddle with my things. He's clever enough to put two and two together. It was the quickest way of getting rid of him," he says.

"I've seen you get rid of people quicker than this.  _This_  isn't quick. What are you playing at?" I snap leaning closely, while eyeing Martin's bedroom door.

"I had intended to leave _just_  before you came," he says standing up from the sofa, going into the direction of the coat-rack putting on his leather-jacket. I stare at him astonished ignoring the leather-jacket. I just realized that he'd played along and he'd played along  _nicely_ , which he hadn't needed to at all. He could have brushed him off quickly, but instead he was continuing the charade.

"Thank you," I say rather reluctantly, as his hand is on the door-handle. He just stops, but doesn't turn to look around. Soon enough he's gone through the door, and left. I stare at the shut door after him. He did indeed try to avoid this. It was obvious he didn't want to be there, despite his cheery mannerism, which was a display to Martin of course. Martin sticks his head out of his bedroom. "He has left then?" he asks, walking over to me, and holding me around my waist before muttering, "Poor chap."

For a moment I forget.

"How so?" I ask and Martin looks at me baffled.

" _Obviously_  he's not OK. You could see it on him really. He pretends he's all happy, but it's obvious that this Nigel bloke has riled him up quite nicely."

"Yeah?"

"The moment you appeared was the first time I'd seen him look genuinely happy," Martin says, giving me a peck on the cheek.

I stand there in confusion, as Martin walks off putting the kettle on, fetching us cups.

"Really?" I say feeling a bit dazed. Again, this is Martin. Martin doesn't even recognise him at all. Martin is apparently more delusional than me. He obviously had to be if he was under the assumption – that  _that_  smile was a proper genuine smile. Sherlock Holmes did not smile, and if he did smile – he did not smile to me.

"Yeah,  _really_ ," he says smiling at me, "He said you knew him so well."

I feel quite caught of guard, as Martin hands me my cup.

"I haven't seen him in a while. He has never been one to talk about his feelings," I say, and it's the first true thing I've said to Martin, since entering his flat.


	5. Stardust

I was at the moment underneath Martin, who was touching me in inappropriate places, while trying to fight the urge to laugh. How _had_  I gotten here? Well, when I'd finally said something truthful Martin looked so sympathetic, that I decided it was a brilliant idea to kiss him, and we landed somehow on his sofa. It wasn't really a brilliant idea; it was  _more_  of a distraction. Well, define distraction? The longer I stayed in Martin's flat, the more difficult became the concept of having sex with him. Suddenly I started to compare our appearances and how similar we were. He was the same height as me, the same brown eyes, thin lips – the only exception was the ginger hair, which seemed almost bottle-colour at closer inspection. It probably wasn't, but things do have a tendency to turn fake if you look too closely. Compared to Sherlock's ginger locks, they were positively straggly and horrendous. I found his apartment too sterile and his paintings quite dull, despite their myriads of colour.

This was the delusion, of course, the small idea, which was crawling out of the back of my head. Sherlock Holmes was currently residing inside my brain mocking the entire situation I was currently in. Here I was snogging somebody who kept his eyes shut while we were kissing. Not an unusual tactic, but of course ridiculous looking when your own eyes are open. I don't really know why my eyes are open, but every time I close them I can see  _him_  – clear as day in my head. It's Martin's own fault. He said it. Why did he have to say it? Is this the point where I shove Martin off, tell him this isn't working, and run after Sherlock into my flat slightly distressed? What if it is all in my head? The possibility isn't so damn near-sighted anyway. I've made quite the story in my head about Sherlock before.  _Oh god_. I've probably imagined the whole thing. It's irritating, because it would be easier if Martin were a wanker. He's not ridiculous. He's not mean. He's not cruel. He's a genuinely nice bloke, but he is no Sherlock Holmes.

"Is something wrong?" asks Martin who's suddenly broken contact from my face. I've genuinely not paid attention. I stare at him in earnest surprise.

"Oh,  _no_ ," I say putting on a smile.

Martin raises himself up in the sofa, and looks at me, before breathing deeply.

"You've been acting odd since he showed up," he says thoughtfully after some minutes of silence. It almost looks as if he's gotten it. He looks at me unsurely. "Is _he_  the one you didn't want to talk about?"

Then I remember.

"No, he's not," I say, and I cannot hide the sadness in my face. I almost wish he were.

Martin puts his arm over my shoulders. "Tell me what's going on Molly, because,  _honestly_  I'm quite confused," he says sheepishly, as I focus my attention on my enclosed hands.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," I say rather quietly glancing at him quickly, with a small smile. Honestly, how does one explain this? Martin just holds around me quietly. I really do hate him. Neither of us says anything.

"I should have known it couldn't be him. He kept asking about it," he says laughing a little bit. I look at Martin in surprise.

"He did?" I say feeling my eyebrows hit my hair.

 _Of course_  he wore the shirt.

"You've never told anyone, have you?" asks Martin.

"It hasn't come up to be honest," I say.

"So you're not going to tell me, then?" he asks. I smile at him, before leaning my head on his shoulder. I don't know what I should say. Obviously this was why Sherlock was in his flat too. He'd hoped to uncover a mystery, as he's obviously bored. This wasn't a mystery for him to uncover to be honest. I wouldn't stare at him in awe if he were to figure this one out. I remember one time when he'd been a massive git, and John Watson had lingered behind saying "He doesn't get it you know."

"Get what?"

"People," he says. "He might know every detail, but  _feelings_  – well, he doesn't really understand them." I thought he knew I fancied him, you know. Everyone else seemed to get it, but he didn't seem to understand it until he humiliated me during Christmas. Finally his face was that of understanding. He apologized. The first and last time I've heard him apologize to me. This wasn't about him though. I almost wish it were. Well, it was – _partly_. I was sort of glad when I met him the first time. He was lying about his identity, and I let him play me like a fool. Honestly, who wouldn't? He is handsome and amazingly intelligent. It's very hard to ignore those facts. I knew what I was to him –  _the help_  more or less, but finally –  _finally_  I had gotten over David.

I wouldn't say gotten over David, because David was impossible to get over, but all of a sudden I had a crush. I never thought that would happen again - especially in my late twenties. At that point I'd given up all hope, despite frequenting websites, and going on dates on suggestions from friends. That rushing sensation had faded entirely, so when Sherlock appeared it returned humbly. I really was glad, until I realized how much it ruled over me. If I were to compare it to my feelings with David, it wasn't even close to it. Then Martin shows up, and he's all dimples and smiles. I wanted with every fibre of my being, to be at the same place as he was at the moment.

"You're not over him, I suppose," Martin says eyeing me, before removing his arms around me, clasping his hands in front of himself awkwardly.

 _Which one?_ "No, I don't think so," I say laughing a bit. "But I don't think one gets over anyone properly, really. They'll always be somewhere in your head tucked away I suppose."

"Meaning?" he says turning his head to me entirely.

"I'm not giving up on you yet, you git," I say giggling, as he kisses me. I don't regret the decision, when I go home. Let's be honest - Sherlock hasn't done anything that spells out  _romance_. He's been a complete arse since he showed up, and that was just last night. Martin has been clever enough to figure out that both of us were lying. Of course, he wasn't clever enough to figure out what we were lying about, but then again – he hit it on the spot. I do suspect that David would have recognized Sherlock though. I hope. I take a deep breath, I waited quite the while at Martin's - postponing my return to my flat. I didn't know what I was expecting. Quite honestly I was expecting him to have left - making the entire thing bittersweet. I know he could have made a better lie than an "ex". There was a reason behind everything.

 _People_  do silly things, you know, and Sherlock Holmes was not one for doing anything  _silly_. The fact that he was interested in my past was to be honest a bit surprising. I remember that Mrs Hudson said he'd started shooting at her wall because he was bored. Boredom caused the great Sherlock Holmes to investigate the stupidest things. I was just waiting for the moment he'd start taking up smoking again killing all my orchids (not that they were in such a state anyway). I was now forced to have a proper conversation with him this time around, which was sorely needed. I couldn't have him wandering about, and neither could I have him saying he was my ex, or poking around in my personal life. It was easier of course pretending to say this in my head, than actually walking into the flat. It wasn't even sure he was in there. I unlocked the door, peered inside, and found the flat empty. His boxes were still there, but I didn't see him sitting in the living room.

"Sherlock?" I enquired.

There was no answer. Relief flooded me. I was left off the hook. There was no conversation to be had, but why was I so disappointed? How irritating. Of course despite myself I found myself wanting to have the  _dreaded_  talk. Who wouldn't? Of course I wanted to know why he'd done all of that – then  _again_  I didn't want to know. Sherlock Holmes doesn't like me. I don't think Sherlock Holmes knows what  _liking_  someone entails. If one were to mention it to him I am sure he'd be hell-bent to avoid it in the first place. I sit down on the sofa, glance at his boxes, and peek at my laptop screen. So this was it, then? He 'd left, and left no note either. He'd also left his things for me to clean up, which wasn't surprising. Toby appears from behind the sofa, and I look at him cheerily.

"What are you doing behind  _there_?" I ask him before picking him up, and scratching him under his chin. He meows quite loudly. He probably wants to play with that toy of his. I look behind the sofa expecting to find your regular squeaky mouse.

 _Instead_  there's a man lying there. He's a middle-aged bald man wearing a suit. He's also  _dead_ , which can be observed closely by the amounts of blood seeping from his freshly killed body. I stare agape at the corpse, jumping off the sofa causing Toby to jump from my arms - all while feeling a bit faint. I've seen dead bodies before,  _yes_ , but not in _my_  flat. Not in  _my_ flat, on  _my_  floor, with blood still coming out of said corpse/person.

"Oh my God," I say gasping, a bit in hysterics, as I stand uncertainly by the dead man. "What the bloody hell? Why, oh,  _god_ , a dead man, oh shit" I say tears automatically coming out of my eyes. I don't know what to do –  _what do I do_? Do I call the police, but  _what if_  Sherlock is the one that put the body there?  _Fuck._ What if Sherlock killed someone?  _Oh god._  At this thread of thought, the door opens, and Sherlock looks at me, before hurriedly running behind the sofa. He's examining the body closely, "He has been put here recently," he says, and I'm definitively not following him at all.

"You _could_  have told me we had a dead body in our flat," I say a wee bit hysterical. Sherlock eyes me puzzled.

"I just noticed something was wrong when I was on my way here," he says, while I stare at the body feeling physically ill.

"So, you're _not_  the one who put the body here, then?" I ask after a moment of silence. Sherlock just looks at me oddly, before looking back at the body.

"This is one of Mycroft's men. I know he has been watching, but I had never expected him to show up dead," says Sherlock bending over the deceased man, poking on his personal objects – his mobile phone in his hand.

"Neither did I," I say laughing a bit nervously. Sherlock looks at me, pockets the phone, and stands up from the body. He walks towards me staring. I look at him, then the corpse, and then at him again.

"Are you  _OK_?" he asks looking at my face.

I laugh a little bit, and that is when I black out entirely.


	6. Jeepers Creepers

I felt like shit, as I started to open my eyes in the startling darkness that was my bedroom.  _Oh god, what had happened?_  Yes, I came home. I petted Toby, poked my head behind the sofa, and found a dead man – a dead man lying in his own pool of blood. There was nothing uncanny or unordinary out of that experience, excepting the fact that he was on _my_ living room floor and behind  _my_ beige sofa – that and being dead. I've seen my fair share of dead people. Death doesn't scare me, the first proper person I saw on a slab was my dad, and I knew it wasn't him anymore. Dad never looked so serious before, so it couldn't be him. So, yes, I fainted. I blame it on David. I had always supposed that if I ever came across a similar circumstance that I'd be a bit stronger, but I suppose even the most well trained experts faint under pressure. I lift myself up on several pillows, and peer through the darkness trying to understand how long I'd been out. Obviously it had been a certain while, I figure out by looking in the general direction of the window – it was entirely dark behind the drapes. I turn on my night lamp, and squint furiously at the brightness it made.

How did I get to bed though? I moved a bit in the bed, and realized I wasn't wearing my regular clothes. No, I was in fact in my pyjamas. Had I done this entirely on my own? No, of course not. Who then?  _Oh._  I almost laugh. Who laughs when a dead man shows up in their apartment? I do, of course. I'm probably one of the few women who giggle over a corpse, before keeling flatly over in a faint. It was better than jumping up and down in hysterics though or weeping openly. Reaction wise it was superior to whatever other horrid reaction I might have had. I slip myself slowly out of the bed, before walking in quite the daze out of the bedroom into the living room. The living room was too also entirely dark, excepting the well-lit laptop screen in front of Sherlock's face. He looks up at me for a moment, "The body's gone," he says. I've naturally peered behind the sofa in mild curiosity. Only to find it entirely spotless with Toby occupying that spot where the body had been. Whatever stain was on my sofa seems to have vanished.

"I didn't dream that at least," I say slightly hollow for a moment, before seating myself in the chair opposite Sherlock, while hugging my legs tightly. I sit silently for a while, before opening my mouth – Sherlock expects this, and says, before I utter a word "Mycroft  _cleaned_  up."

"He did? But I thought he thought you were dead?" I say with furrowed brows.

"He did, it took a lot of convincing on my part to not be the late  _Mr Patrick Leon_ ," Sherlock quips with the shortest of smiles.

"You're coming out back in the open, then?" I ask him.

"No," he answers quite quickly, before finally shutting his laptop screen, and turning on the light to his right. He looks at me enquiringly for a moment, "Aren't you curious as to why a dead body was in your flat? A man who also works for my brother?"

"You said he'd been watching," I say.

"You don't find it odd that you've been watched?" he enquires.

"From what Mrs Hudson has told me about your brother, I'm more surprised that his man showed up dead."

Sherlock smiles, longer than the last. He seems genuinely amused for once, which is a first.

"Mycroft had quite the rage on finding one of his best men dead and me suddenly alive again. It was quite the phone call."

I laugh despite myself.

"But if he's been watching, then why didn't Mycroft know you were alive?" I ask feeling a bit confused.

" _Our_  Mr Patrick Leon wasn't the best of watchers, even if he might be one of Mycroft's better men. He hadn't really paid proper attention since after I died and took too many coffee breaks. Of course today he was supposed to get in here and have a look-see," says Sherlock.

I blinked. "He'd go through my things?" I say feeling slightly aghast.

"More of a look to see if anything's out of the ordinary," he continues.

Well, I can't blame him for the missing socks, then.

"Of course if he came in here, he'd notice my things, and put two and two together."

I bite my lip in anticipation.

"Unfortunately Mr Patrick Leon was dead before he had a proper chance to have a look around," he says.

I knew it wasn't me, and Sherlock said it wasn't him.

"Who did it?" I ask despite myself.

"Someone knows I'm alive. They've obviously known for a while,  _and_ they know about David," he says.

_David?_

"What?" I say. "What has David to do with any of this?"

"Molly, tell me about him," says Sherlock, his expression soft, despite it being a demand. I stare at him for a while in disbelief.

"You know, then?" I ask.

He just gives the briefest of nods.

"Do I need to say it?" I say.

"You need to understand why I am bringing it up," he says.

"I don't need to," I say disagreeing.

"Yes, you do."

I take a deep breath.

"I just fainted Sherlock," I lie.

"You see dead bodies all the time Molly."

I frown at him.

"You kept that shirt for a reason," he adds in my silence.

I snort.

"Yes, well, David was adamant. He meant I had to keep a memory. I'd already thrown out the dress I wore to my father's funeral, and he meant that every memory however sad could become happy."

Sherlock just sits there in silence.

"He always seemed happy, you know, and he was particularly happy at that time. We'd just moved in together, and all of a sudden I find him in our flat," I say, keeping my breathing as steady as possible. "There was so much blood. It was too late when I'd called for the ambulance."

I held on to him too long, even when they'd showed up. He was so very cold. I look up at Sherlock, who sees that my mind has wandered.

"Mr Patrick Leon wasn't murdered. He took his own life," says Sherlock during my silence. "In the same manner that David did."

"What?" I say.

"Exactly. I find it very peculiar that a middle-aged man kills himself upon entering your flat," says Sherlock, with a bit of a chuckle, which he quickly tries to hide.

"So you're saying-," I start while trying to understand what I've tried to understand for years.

"David was murdered," he says.

The air seems to have gone out of the room. I shake my head in disbelief. I have had many years to try and cope with this.

"There was a note," I say not quite sure what to do with myself. I've been living with the fact that maybe,  _maybe_  David was unhappy, and there was nothing I could do to have stopped him.

Sherlock looks at me in surprise. He didn't know of the note then. I almost laugh against my will; saying "Bedroom," before the proper harm of the situation hits me. David was killed? He was  _murdered._ His life was stolen, our life together ended quite early, because -

"Why?" I say, as Sherlock pops up from my bedroom with the note in hand. He didn't need to be told where it was of course - he's Sherlock.

Sherlock's obviously caught off guard by this, and it is clear that he wants to talk about what he's found out. He takes a moment though, holds the piece of frail paper down, and says, "David worked for a medical company did he not? He was trained to be a chemist."

He obviously doesn't need for me to confirm this. I keep quiet.

"The medical company was known for their sleeping medicine, which is still one of the most known brands out there. He'd been working dutifully, until one day he'd come across something he shouldn't have. Your David was smart, as his suicide note shows-," he says holding it up smugly. Not many people get that happy about suicide notes. I know this one by heart, even before David had written it.

" _There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so_ ," I say out loud.

" _Hamlet._  They let him choose his own words; cruel they most likely were. David doesn't choose the mournful epitaph. He chooses his last moment to quote Hamlet. A play where the main character is  _poisoned_ ," says Sherlock grinning quite manically. I raise my brows at him.

"You're saying that there was something bad going on in the company he worked for?"

"Yes, your David was clever enough to notice. Unfortunately enough they'd have to get rid off him. A young man killing himself, nobody would bat an eye. It happens all the time," he says.

"How did they get him to do it? David was never, well, he would never willingly have done it," I say perching my lips.

"That's the question. Here we've got our newly deceased Mr Leon, who  _also_ kills himself. All evidence suggests it. There was no sign of him being forced, and being quite the strong man he would have managed to overtake his murderer," says Sherlock, looking at me expectantly.

"They weren't  _drugged_?" I say slightly agape.

"Exactly. They had to be. Mr Leon had a fondness for coffee. I am not sure what David took, but he got it in his system –  _this medicine_."

"Well, then get hold of the medical company, then," I say quite out of breath.

"They were involved, yes, but I'd rather be interested in who they hired," says Sherlock. "Our cities consulting criminal was most likely involved."

"Moriarty? I thought he was dead. Didn't he shoot himself?" I ask feeling a bit shaky where I sit.

"Yes, that's the thing. This is obviously why he chose to be Jim from IT. Simultaneously as he'd take down me, he could laugh at his own clever joke of dating the girlfriend to his first victim."

"His first?"

"Jim Moriarty's name started to appear around the time of David's death," Sherlock says. "He got quite popular after that moment."

I hadn't cried about it for years to be honest, so when the hot swelling tears start to drop, I cannot stop them. I see Sherlock doesn't know quite what to do with this, as he silently gives me the note. This was not a note for goodbye. This was a clue. I stared at the piece of paper, before folding it up and hiding it inside my palm. I feel Sherlock's hand on my shoulder. I look up at him, and smile weakly.

"You changed my clothes, then?" I ask him, trying to change the topic, as I wipe at my eyes with my sleeves.

"You got blood on your clothes," he says after a moment.

"Thank you," I say.

"Someone left Mr Leon as a warning. You have to be prepared," he says.

"I've got  _you_. I'm not worried," I say, and his hand only grips a bit firmer on my shoulder, before leaving it. I almost expect him to ask me why I'd let him wear David's shirt. Honestly, I can't really say as to why.

* * *

What started as a very agitated relationship between my new flatmate and me extends to acceptance, and understanding. Of course this is just day one, so I might hate him at the end of the day. I do make him a plate of breakfast, which he doesn't touch, while I quietly go to work pretending he never changed my clothes or saw me weeping. I've got several questions, which I avoid asking, for the better of the situation. I'd like to avoid getting delusional again. I couldn't actually expect Sherlock to take me into his arms exactly – that was mad. I had to admit that I did envision him scooping me up to bed, removing my clothes quite slowly, before dressing me up again. I'd remind myself quite hurriedly of Martin by the point my cheeks were flushed. That would cool them down quite swiftly, as I cursed myself at work under my breath while cataloguing. Martin who'd sent me several texts since yesterday, which I'd answered quite dutifully as any girlfriend would. Martin is brilliant - I am an arse. I'd like to say it was because of David and Mr Leon, which it is. They are the reason that I'm quite this ruffled – taking a very long time doing duties I'd usually use half of the time on. Luckily, I knew it had to be because living with Sherlock was in itself distracting.

I thought I wouldn't be diverted, but it was horribly difficult not to feel anything when you've got him sitting half-naked on your sofa. He doesn't seem to really consider the disturbing effect it has on me. I suppose it's because it has been a while. Honestly, it has, so yes, of course. If I were to have Martin wandering around my flat shirtless I'd probably be in that mode of thinking too. The whole thing makes me feel guilty though. I should be in mourning. I should be thinking of David, but I've wasted years mourning over his death already. A death, which I find was planned, and by no other than Moriarty himself. No, wonder he watched Glee with me – he probably felt like he owed me a favour – the bastard. Sherlock didn't really confirm or deny whether or not Moriarty was involved. I suppose that even beyond the grave, the man still has things going on without him.

I hear the doors swing open, as I stay bended over a Mrs Flaherty. I look up and find a smartly dressed man peering at me. His eyes flicker at Mrs Flaherty "Heart attack, obviously," he says with a quick smile, before stretching his hand out to me "Mycroft Holmes, pleasure to finally meet you."

Here's the man who's been wilfully spying on me. I can imagine how long it's been going on. I almost laugh on the idea that there's an actual file on me out there somewhere. I wonder what sort of information they've gotten from me during the years.  _Yes, Molly Hooper – she's the one with the crush on my brother._

I take his hand and shake it.

"You're probably wondering as to why I am here. As you know  _Benedict_  and me cannot quite meet, as we would under other circumstances," he says "These are things which I hope will be corrected in due time, but at the moment you'll have to take part in the domestication of him. I hope this will suffice."

He hands me a cheque.

"You're giving me money?" I say quirking a brow at him.

"You will need it Doctor Hooper, I am sure," he says still holding it expectantly. I stare at it for a while, unsure what I'm going to do, before finally taking it, gasping slightly at the zeroes. "Benedict will probably need it for that project of his. He does spend quite a great deal in front of the computer."

With this Mycroft Holmes dramatically exits the room. He obviously knows more than me. I suppose it's better that I don't.


	7. Night and Day

I feel the cheque pressing up on my thigh pretty much the rest of my shift, before I enter my flat finding the whole place in a clutter – the boxes have been emptied out, it seems, as Sherlock sits in the middle of his  _kingdom_  with his microscope decked out on my table. He's apparently studying the note, which I gave him leave to. There has to be another clue in it, yet by the agitated expression he has on his face I'm expecting the worst of  _tantrums_.

Here's my  _ex-gay-boyfriend_ , who Martin refers to as  _Ben_. "How's Ben doing?" he asks me, and I almost laugh during the phone call. Sherlock has genuinely convinced him he is a  _nice guy_ (of course he wasn't the worst of men), and played his part well. Martin of course wanted to visit, but I came up with  _Benedict_  being under the weather making the whole thing impossible. Nigel had phoned and caused quite the scene in the apartment, which was in some odd way true.

I could have gone to his of course, but to be honest I found myself still a little bit rattled. Dead bodies and cheques were enough for me. My mum had of course phoned and went on and on about how happy she was for me – how she would soon meet Martin's mum – who lived quite the hectic life nowadays. Well, she had to be if she had managed to produce a painter for a son.

This made me of course wonder how Mrs Holmes had to be of all people. I could scarcely believe that Mycroft Holmes actually popped up at my work to give me a cheque. I knew the cheque wasn't to me, but I was surprised. He could have sent it in the mail or made someone else deliver it. I had to admit I wondered what he meant with "domestication". Sherlock's barely lived with me yet; of course he's already made a mark in less than three days.

"Have you figured something out?" I ask. He doesn't reply though, and looks almost sullen. I drop my bag, before putting the check on top of the microscope. "How much?" he just says.

I settle down on the chair. "A lot." He grins at that, before peering at it appraisingly. "That is much, yes."

"What are you doing that you need that much money for really?" I say trying not to make it seem like I'm prying.

" _Shopping_ ," he just says with that knowing smirk of his. I could scarcely imagine Sherlock Holmes buying a carton of milk, even less imagining him buying himself clothes, despite his good taste. He did wear a leather jacket now though, which told something.

"How did you get all of your old things back anyway?" I ask him, but he just quirks a brow at me, sets aside the cheque, and pokes a bit more on the piece of parchment. I snort.

"Your mother phoned, she's not going to visit I hope?" he asks.

I'd ask how he does that, but it's a pointless exercise none the less.

"No, I am  _trying_  to avoid more visitation, I don't want this thing to spread really. I've got enough with just having Martin  _fawn_  over you."

At this Sherlock stops looking through the microscope "Fawn?" he says grimacing.

"Yes, he's very impressed over you. At this point I'm starting to believe he'd rather get it off with you to be frank," and you can see my words startle him. Molly Hooper and  _sex_  – those are two things that shan't be mentioned in the same sentence by Sherlock Holmes. I'm probably pretty sexless at this point - still in my trousers and top, slightly over-heated from work, feeling like the closest thing I could pull right now is animal-related.

"He's not gay at least," says Sherlock, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. I suppose we're two of the only people, who can only a day after a man's dead body lay in the same room – can giggle and talk about _relationships_.

Or I was talking and giggling, he's more remarking snidely, as he always does when it comes to my relationships. He's never been the best person when it comes to them. I used to overanalyse that and assume there was double meaning in it, but in the end I've come to terms with the fact that he means I've got rubbish taste in men.

"Is Martin good then? – Not that I need your approval. I'm just curious," I ask him trying not to look like I care for his opinion. He peers at me for a moment.

"He's a  _right_  star," he says, which causes me to frown.

"A right star? I'm sorry?" I say startled. No one uses that expression, especially not him. "Did I manage to  _ignore_ the sarcasm – if you don't like him, do  _be_ honest?"

"I thought you didn't need my approval," he says with a brief smile directing his attention to the note again. I glare at him.

"Right then,  _so_ , are you going to clean this up?" I ask him gesturing to the wide assortment of items covering my flat. They were either spread on the table or on the floor like a little fort made around him. Just wads of rubbish more or less.

"I  _need_  it," he says, his patience obviously wearing thin, since I'm disturbing his solving of the case.

"Sherlock, not that I don't love this. I'd like you to at least keep it tidy. I don't think you need this skull – right now, do you? You're just using the microscope," I say picking up the skull and holding it in my hand. It was a proper human one, I'd almost be afraid, hadn't I grown accustomed to that sort of thing from before.

"You are not really bothered about the mess," he says looking a bit thoughtful.

"Right," I say rolling my eyes at him. Almost putting my hands on my hips, but I avoid the gesture. It's so typically my mum it hurts.

He stands up from the microscope, raises his brow, and looks at me curiously, as if I'm a case to solve. I just stand crossing my arms, at least that's not a gesture that haunts me in my head.

"You are angry, not with me," he murmurs edging closer towards me. I'd almost move, but I want to stand my ground.

"Yes?" I quip in return, waiting for the big reveal.

"You are angry with yourself," he says looking puzzled. "You are angry, because you aren't as upset as you thought you would be. You do not need to mourn him Molly. David wrote that so you would not."

_Git._

"Some times you do give the semblance of a real human being," I say peering up at him grinning despite myself. He's still a git though.

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't clean up – what if someone surprise visits me?" I add.

Sherlock gives me an expression, which resembles that of  _Who would_? Before he settles down on the sofa again. "I've found out that the parchment has been made in Essex. One of the times were a clue has been irrelevant," he says avoiding the topic of cleaning obviously, by answers my previous question. I'd almost be irritated hadn't I been interested.

"Well, Moriarty probably wanted to cover his tracks, then," I say. "You could try to contact the company, then."

"No, they will expect that," he says with a far-away expression.

"Who's that, then – _they_?"

"It has been long under my suspicion that Moriarty did not operate alone. Jim did indeed have several able-bodied folk working for him, waiting just for the right snap of the fingers to pull the trigger."

"Then they, whoever was working for him is doing this, then?"

"Yes."

"But if they know you're alive – why  _don't_  they – err – you know?" I almost start stammering again.

" _Kill_ me? - Too simple and  _too_  delightfully boring. If they are going to do it, I depend they will try to do it with a bang. At some point they will get too bored playing this  _waiting_  game."

Toby jumps at my feet distracting me, and causing me to pick him up, heading to sit down in a chair, instead of standing too close a proximity to Sherlock. "What do you think they'll do though?" I ask him while petting Toby, who soon sprints to the floor satiated, making sport of Sherlock's objects. I suspected he was hungry, but judging from the empty cat food tin in the kitchen; Sherlock had obviously fed him. Sherlock ignores me, as I stare slightly agape at the tin.

"Hopefully no more corpses at least. If we  _are_  lucky they might try the drug on us," he says, and you can actually see on his face that he means that.

"Despite _that_  I still want a cup of tea," I say before brewing myself a cuppa. I look in his general direction, he just briefly nods, and I put out a cup for him too. That's when the doorbell goes off. I stare at Sherlock,

"It is a visitor deeming by the pressure on the doorbell. Just tell them to go away," he says sitting down again.

I frown before heading for the door, talking through the intercom - "Hello," I say with a slightly non-committed shrug, just to give the air of being absolutely calm, which I properly wasn't. I was dearly hoping Martin wouldn't pop up for a visit – in that case I'd pretend that Sherlock's stuff was some obscure form of art-installation that  _Ben_  did on the side. "Hello, _hi_ , it's John, John Watson. Can I come in?"

I look at Sherlock who just returns my confused expression, before really thinking - before really considering the effects of my words, I say -"Sure," buzzing him in simultaneously. I can see from Sherlock's expression that he's surely not proud of me, before he runs into my bedroom carrying his microscope in hand with the note.

Yes, because _that_  will do.

Yes,  _of course_  John Watson will just completely ignore all the other objects.

Yes, it was my fault.

Yes, I'd find a way.

Of course I would, but to be honest I was mainly wondering why he was here. It was a peculiar time to be ringing anyone's doorbell. The fact that we also weren't really on speaking terms, he'd also properly cussed me off on the phone for not believing Sherlock was one of the many reasons, as why he shouldn't be walking into my home. So, I went for best disguise ever – that of a  _very_  mousy Molly Hooper. I open the door, and look at John keenly. He walks inside, smiles a bit awkwardly, before his eyes fall without a doubt on Sherlock's things.  _Shit._  Well, it is rather hard to ignore the clutter.

"Made a cup of tea," I say to him, handing him the fresh new cup, which was intended for his supposedly dead ex-roommate who is currently hiding in my bedroom clutching his microscope. I'd almost laugh, hadn't none of it been remotely close to amusing or well actually - "Why are you here?" I say before he can ask. His brows are furrowed, as he directs his attention to me again.

"I just – I was just in the neighbourhood," he says perching his lips, while his eyes keep darting over to the sofa-area. "Are those what I think they are?" He walks towards the things, cup in hand, and looks at me "Why have you got his things?"

"First things first –  _why_  are you here actually? – Since I  _don't_ believe you were just in the neighbourhood," I say to him, adding an edge to my voice. Ok, so probably  _no_  mousy Molly, then.

"Mind if I sit down?" he says, seating himself in the sofa, causing my eyes to rest on his cane. I settle down on the sofa besides him and try to ignore the mess. Toby is currently outside my bedroom door clawing on the door itself while meowing. I frown and try to pretend I don't care, as John glances curiously at the cat, before returning his gaze to me. I could see he was wondering as to why I had all of Sherlock's things. I was also wondering about this fact too, as various improbable lies came to mind.

"Well, Molly, I –  _I_ was round Bart's today, and I couldn't help but notice – that Mycroft was at your office."

"Oh," I say. John had been grasping at straws for months, which honestly made me a bit sad, but it was obvious that he missed Sherlock. It was almost tempting pulling the idiot by his hair out into the living room, before skipping inside the bedroom to let them sort it out. I knew that Sherlock wouldn't enjoy that bit – he probably barely enjoyed this. "Yeah, well you know he wanted me to have a closer look on his things," I say gesturing to the objects. I can see from John's face that this was obviously a bad move.

"Those got stolen from my flat months ago," he says, with steel in his voice this time around. I flinch ever so slightly, so I go for the all clear. I've done it before. I can do it again. I begin to cry, of course not the proper hot leaky tears, but the half-choking, slightly covering my face with my hands, while I make great  _whaling_ sounds. "Oh God, I just  _can't_  – oh John, I'm so sorry. I miss him, I do. I didn't mean to take these things, I just, of course I know he's not a fake. It's just the things you hear at work. I thought I was over him, you know, but no I'm not. Not at all, I'm still in love with him, and now he's gone," I say trying to gasp for air, as if I cannot breathe. John puts his hand on my knee in general surprise, and looks startled. Thank God, he's buying it.

"I just had to have some memory. I saw him you know, on the slab, and it was the oddest feeling. Worst is having Mycroft pop up today asking about that, because of those posters going about. I do believe in Sherlock Holmes, I do!" I say putting on the hysterics, while leaning on the table grasping the cheque, which had been forgotten by Sherlock. You'd suppose he would be a bit more careful, but no – I just hastily tuck it inside my bra. "I'm sorry, I got a bit carried away," I say, as John awkwardly pats my back, while I clutch my chest.

"It's fine Molly, I  _know_ , I know how you feel. You can keep them; it's best I don't have them anyway. I don't think it's good for you to keep them either way, though, so I think you better get rid of them after a little while."

"You're probably right," I say giving a loud sigh, before dabbing around my eyes promptly.

"So he'd asked if you saw anything out of the ordinary then?" he asks again, seeming it a safe ground now, for the hysterical Molly Hooper.

"Yes, I wish I had though. I often wished he'd leap off my table and request a cup of coffee, but no-," I say, watching to my annoyance that Toby's meowing grew louder outside of my bedroom door.  _Bloody cat._  Just because someone feeds you tuna, doesn't mean that they are your  _sole_  provider! "-He didn't though," I continue picking Toby up, and petting him smiling at John, who looks at me uneasily, while eyeing my bedroom door with interest.

"I'm sorry Molly, I'm just being an idiot. Mycroft never really pays visits like that. People usually get picked up in elaborate schemes," he says rather quietly, as if he remembers something wistfully.

"I suppose he hasn't needed to do something like that since Sherlock died," I say putting on a sad expression.

"You're probably right," he says frowning at Toby who's rather skittish in my arms. "Molly, what's wrong with your cat?"

"Just a bit riled up, hasn't gotten his food yet," I say, but John spots the tin can on the kitchen counter. Apparently  _this_  is why women don't have cats, just in case when your supposedly dead roommate's ex-roommate come on a surprise visit - your cat won't reveal the whole thing. John stands up from the sofa, and starts walking to the bedroom door. I stand in front of the door.

"Molly, I'm not an idiot," he says looking a bit angry now. "What  _are_  you hiding?"

"Nothing, there's nothing," I say a bit properly hysterical now I have to admit. Quick,  _think_ , what can you – but he calmly pulls me to the side with a decided force. It is just the right amount of pressure, which makes me go to the side quite awkwardly, feeling ever so defeated.

John opens up the door, makes the queerest of expressions, before slamming it shut again. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," he says, and his face is a keen shade of red. "I, God, I shouldn't have come here. Jesus, I'm mental, aren't I, right?" he says almost up in the air "Thank you for the cuppa, I'll just go, then," he ends, before quite hastily disappearing out of my flat.

I stare after him in disbelief. What just happened? I glance at my bedroom door for a second, before opening it.

There he is, the great detective, standing just in his underwear, while his one hand is handcuffed to my bedpost. He looks at me expectantly "Help me find the key. It is supposed to be with my other things, if I did not neglect to bring it." I stare slightly agape.

"I'm sorry,  _why_ are you handcuffed to my bed?" I ask, standing entirely too still.

"I had to think quickly," he says. "I did what came to mind."

"You had _handcuffs_ on you," I say after a moment of what can be deemed as awkward silence. I never had awkward silences with Sherlock Holmes. Or well I'd have silences where  _I'd_  be awkward.

"They were in my things," he continues. I see my black silk nightgown wrapped around his neck. He catches me seeing this, and tosses it aside on the bed "I hid my face, so he wouldn't recognise me. John is too proper to really have a good look. Especially when he sees a naked man."

" _Naked_ ," I say, not really meaning to say it out loud either. To be honest the fact that he was currently, or well  _had_  been naked on my bed was one very disconcerting fact I couldn't overlook.

"Key," says Sherlock, who for a moment looks almost amused at my expression. I shake myself out of it, before peering into his items, practically crawling upon the floor, while trying to find it. Toby runs around on the floor obviously interested in me  _at last_ , and my activities.

"Brilliantly played Miss Hooper," says Sherlock, I turn around, while on my knees, and give him a curt nod, before continuing my search "I would never have guessed you could do that," he continues.

"I had to get myself out of plenty of scrapes when I was a kid," I just said grinning despite myself. Of all situations, having Sherlock Holmes handcuffed to my bedpost wasn't one of the worst-case scenarios that ever played in my head really. Now, of course John Watson would think I was  _entirely_  mental though. This was the official downside. I'm weeping over a dead man, while having a live one locked in my bedroom.

_Well_ , at least it was better than brown mouse Molly Hooper. More like completely crazed semi-stalker Hooper with naked men on her bed. I divert myself from my amusing thoughts "You sure it's here?" I say finally standing up from the floor, peering down on the clutter of paper, books, and whatnot. Sherlock looks anxious for a moment where he stands.

"What?" I say looking at him feeling a bit worried.

"Cats don't _eat_  keys, do they?" he asks. It is odd what he does know, and what he doesn't know.

"Not as I am aware of," I say raising my brows at him. "Why do you say that?"

"I had the keys at my disposal earlier, and I fed Toby at that time."

I'd love to ask why he had been using the keys to his handcuffs for, but I tried to avoid thinking too many salacious thoughts already.

"You're basically saying that you might have dropped it in his food?" I ask. He's supposed to be the brilliant Mr Sherlock Holmes; here an all-consuming cat topples him.

"Yes," he just says.

We stare at each other for a solid minute; I can feel my face burning.

"Good thing that you're not handcuffed on my side of the bed, then –  _then_  I'd be properly crossed," I say rather cheekily, while trying not to seem like I'm overjoyed. I do have a boyfriend, remember?  _I love that cat though._


	8. Dream a little dream of me

What seemed like the funniest and slightly awkward situation spun into one of the tensest twenty minutes I've ever encountered. You'd suppose that after that rather cheeky comment from me I'd be entirely fine with the prospect of sharing a bed with my previous crush. That would entirely be a dream of mine. No, at this point I ended up wanting to fetch a saw to ruin the bedpost. I even contemplated buying some drugs from the night-open chemist to give to Toby – so we could hurry the  _process_.

I had hoped this was a situation we could just laugh about and sleep calmly through, but it was apparent that the sheer idea of sharing a bed with him unsettled me. Sherlock just seemed blatantly amused, as he stretched himself on the bed. He didn't even consider the implications if anyone were to come visit. Not that anyone would come this late to a visit now. There couldn't be any more shocking events taking place today – the day had officially reached its limit.

"You're not going to even _try_  to fix this?" I say almost grumpily, while he's just lying lazily on the bed with his arm in a rather uncomfortable position.

"No," he says picking up a book, which I've got on my nightstand. I snatch it out of his hands, before lying down on my side quite irritated. I could of course sleep on the sofa bed, but I never get proper sleep on it.

"Could you hand me some pillows?" he asks quietly for a moment.

I avoid looking at him, as I hand them to him silently. He grabs a portion of the duvet with his free left hand. He just sits there ginger-haired, with furrows in his brows, breathing deeply.

"  _I_  am not going to sleep on the sofa-bed, because  _one_  I don't find it pleasant to my back, and  _secondly_  this is my bed – you're the one who locked yourself to  _my_ bed, when you could have used something simpler – a piece of fabric, since you had no trouble of stuffing your face with my silk nightgown!" I say a little bit more nettled, than I expected. I still avoid looking in his direction, for if I were I'd end up staring at him too much despite myself. It had been  _too_  long. I had tried to distract myself earlier with a semi-awkward phone conversation with Martin, who'd rung me up asking how Ben was doing, and if I'd had a nice day. I said it was "eventful" to say the least, while I could see Sherlock with gritted teeth gesturing if ever so wildly towards his chain – as we still had a small remaining hope of finding the key. I just blatantly ignored him and rattled on – on the phone, hoping the creeping flush on my chest would stop going off like an alarm. "What you said to John," he says, and this time I can feel his eyes boring into my face. I raise a brow. "Was it true?"

"That was a lie," I say, paying more attention to my book now.

"There's always some truth in a clever disguise," he says eyeing me.

I suddenly become aware of my body, and feel awkward and out of place in my own bed – in my own home. In my bed lies Sherlock Holmes right besides me – our shoulders touching. I try to lean away from him, lying instead in a highly uncomfortable position.

"Well, the  _disguise_  was of me from back _then_ ," I say flipping a page. I haven't read a full one yet. I should have known that what I'd say would come and bite me in the arse. I had hoped it wouldn't be brought up at all, but of course I'd have to face the music. I just never suspected  _he'd_  be one to bring it up.

"You let me wear the shirt," he says contemplating now.

I give an involuntary sigh, before changing my page. What am I reading actually? I quite forgot to be honest – borrowed to me by Martin. Yes, Martin my boyfriend. Remember? He borrowed you "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" by Agatha Christie. Yes, you might have another proper non-fiction detective besides you, but that doesn't mean a thing.

"Yes, you wore the shirt, so what?" I say, at which Sherlock yanks the book out of my hands and throws it aside. I stare at him aghast "What did you do that for? Martin borrowed that to me-," I say attempting to get out of the bed, as he grabs hold of my arm. He's not holding on firmly either, but I sit back down. He releases my arm.

"Molly –  _did_  you?" he asks.

"Did I what – did I  _fancy_  you? Of course I did fancy you. You standing there, putting on fake smiles, pretending around me constantly, of course I did. I was an idiot, but I knew I was being an idiot. What do you have to say?" I say agitated.

"I'm sorry," he just says looking at me with a sincere look on his face.

He has been saying that a lot I find, or well not really, but a lot for it being him. "Thank you, anyway that is all over and done with. So let's just try to sleep, possibly," I say turning off the light, and lying down entirely. Sherlock's not moved though, sitting half-seated up in the bed.

"What?" I say staring up in the ceiling.

"He's got himself a girlfriend," he says.

"Who?" I ask. Does he mean Martin?  _No._

" _John_ , he's got himself a girlfriend – that's why he was at Bart's by accident," he says quietly.

"Are you  _actually_  jealous?" I say my mouth quirking into a smile despite myself, when I pop up on my elbows in the bed blinking at him in the dark.

"No," he retorts seeming absolutely affronted.

"Yes,  _yes_ , you are. I should poke holes on your disguise – my  _gay ex-boyfriend_  – if that doesn't say something I don't know what has come to the world," I say grinning.

"What does it say then Doctor Hooper?" he says sounding serious. He always calls me Doctor Hooper when he's serious.

"No, we're talking of the fact that you're not happy that John has moved on, which is good for him, but let's face the fact – he _hasn't_."

"He hasn't?"

" _Sherlock_ – he was here, asking about you – just  _now_  – it's pretty evident that this will haunt him a long time. So I suggest you solve this case, and remedy this whole thing – so that both of you can be happy."

"I'm not unhappy," he says clearly distraught for the mild suggestion that John Watson is one of the sources to his happiness. I roll my eyes, and turn over to my side again, trying to ignore him.

"Why do you notice?" he says after a while of me having my back to him.

"I just do, you're easy to read," I say yawning loudly to put across that I was tired. I wasn't though. Difficult when you can feel someone's warm body just besides you.

"I am not  _easy to read_. Besides you knew then and you know now,"

"Well, then, I'm lucky at guessing."

"You still don't believe it, do you?"

"Believe what?"

"That you do count."

"Yes, I do."

He doesn't say anything; I just awkwardly try to find a comfortable position with my pillows, despite it – the thought lingers too long in my head.

"Why do you do that?" I ask him breathing through my nostrils.

Now it's his turn to be confused.  _Hopefully._  "You give the idea that you don't know what's going on – when you clearly know what's going on-," I start, but he stops me with saying, "You stopped stammering, and you let me borrow the shirt."

"Do you want me to start _stammering_ again?" I say almost mockingly.

"No, Molly I'd rather not," he says rather amused it sounds. "But what do you deduce of my disguise then?"

I didn't really expect any conversation between us. I never expected there to be a situation at hand, more than me blushing furiously and falling asleep – instead I was forced into a conversation I knew would do more harm than good.

"Sherlock, I think it's better that we don't talk about this. Anyway, I better leave it to the  _professional_. You could figure it out, can't you?"

Another bout of silence falls, I just close my eyes for once, trying to pretend he's not there, and that I am not there either. I can still hear him breathing besides me. He hasn't lain down properly; obviously his arm is propped up uncomfortably. I get irritated over myself, as I grab more of the soft cushions stacked on the floor, before silently putting them under his arm. His eyes are on me during that entire time, I look back into his, breaking the silence with "You could have used some of my knickers, you know."

He laughs abruptly and we break eye contact, before I lie down again.

"I did not feel it was appropriate," he says.

"Handcuffing yourself to my bed was a better idea, then?" I say.

"I didn't know that Toby would eat the key," he says finally lying down on the bed.

"Finally something you didn't know."

"I never  _know_ , I just  _observe_."

"Yes, well, that's sort of nice really. I wouldn't like you to read my mind."

"Why is that?" he asks.

I almost feel like slapping him for being so oblivious or  _pretending_  to. I wasn't quite certain what he was playing at though – if he was playing at anything that is. He didn't seem an inch upset at the prospect of  _sleeping with me._

"John's girlfriend, though, could you tell if she's nice?" I ask changing the topic of the conversation.

"What?" he asks.

"Well, obviously you've probably been following him around haven't you?" I ask. I can hear his genuine surprise, as he replies, "Yes, she is. Dull of course, but she did bring him a case."

"She did?"

"Missing father - her names Mary Morstan –  _another_  nurse – he does like those," he says.

"He's not going to ignore you when you come back, if you're worried of course," I say.

"I'm not," but I could detect in his voice that he had been. Of course, Sherlock might pretend he didn't care for John, but one knew where his heart really was – having hopped off the top of Bart's really proved that one.

"He's serious about her though," he says.

"Are we actually talking about someone's relationship?"

"He's going to move out."

"Well, you are too old to be both living together in a bachelor pad, aren't you?" At this point I'm expecting a rough narrative about my being single female with cat. Wait, I've got a boyfriend.  _God_ , Martin. I keep forgetting him. Well, to be honest I haven't actually properly talked with him since – err – yesterday. Right, then, yeah, time. I've completely lost it – haven't I? "You can't expect him to move in with Miss Morstan into Baker Street exactly."

"It would be easier," he says, as if he's fond of the idea. I laugh much more brutally than I intend to. I can see him peering at me, but I'm just keeping my eyes fixed in the texture of my ceiling. A very good ceiling it is, you know.

"At some point we've all got to move on, you know," I say, turning my back to him with some sort of finality. He's in my bed, in  _my_  bed, and what happens – not the sexy scenario - of him grasping hold of me with his free left hand, before kissing me until my lips grow sore. He's not sending me wistful eyes or staring at me longingly. I don't expect these things come up in his mind at all. He's just chained to my bed, because my cat Toby ate the key. He'd never appear in my bed willingly you know. I hear him shifting besides me, his breathing growing a bit calmer and a bit deeper. I imagine how he looks like -

He's got a lovely profile. I remember being happy when I caught glimpses of him in the paper. I never cut the pictures out though, I knew that it would just make me grow more mad having pictures of him lying about. I had vivid enough images of him in my head as it were – I didn't need another daily reminder of the man who became my daily torment. I close my eyes, and try to pretend he's not there again.

"Molly," I hear him whisper.

I frown. I'm never getting any sleep, aren't I?

"Molly –  _Molly_  -," he murmurs into my ear, as his left hand slides under my waist, and he grabs me so I turn around facing him. I look at him startled. "What  _are_ you doing?"

"Is this not what you want, then?"

"If I'd ever just wanted sex, I'd have-," I start saying, but he kisses me before I get the chance to continue. His tongue licking my lower lip, I wantonly open my mouth, despite having inner protests. His other right hand is suddenly free, and he's on top of me. His hands roam freely over my body, deftly sweeping open the buttons on the front of my pyjamas. He teases my nipples between his fingertips, as he kisses my neck, and I press up against him. I can feel him hard against me, my hand reaches down, and I release him. Before I know it I haven't gotten my bottoms on anymore. He moans into my ear, whispering - "I won't ever be sweet, I promise." He pushes forwards, as I clutch myself to his warm body. Then –  _then_  – the alarm clock rings. Bloody flipping hell, sodding – shit – freak –  _flipping_  – fuck. Sorry, god. I lift my head from the spot of my –  _wait_  – his chest apparently – his  _moist_  chest  _apparently_ , shit. I can see him blinking, groaning a bit, as he seems deep in sleep. I remove myself slowly from his chest, drying the drool from my face, before rubbing off the wet spot on his chest with my elbow. He doesn't react luckily, and I look in the direction of the alarm clock – which isn't going off. "What –  _what_?" I say startled, and then I realize – it's the bloody  _doorbell_. Of course, of course it has to be. I sprint out of my bedroom; slam the door behind me, before running towards the intercom. I press on the button "Hello?" I say hoarsely. I've never had the cheeriest of voices in the morning to be honest.

"Hi," says the voice of course of the brilliant,  _perfectly_  on time Martin. Yes, I did say we'd meet for breakfast didn't I? I should have thought that one through. Right, still got  _Benedict_  chained onto my bedpost. "I'm not  _entirely_  ready, though – overslept a bit," I say cursing my alarm clock under my breath.

"I'll come up and wait then," he says.

"Right-o," I say slightly distressed buzzing him in. I do manage to put myself in these ridiculous settings all on my own of course. I run into my bedroom again and find the bed vacant. The handcuff is just hanging on the bedpost it seems, as I grab hold of it – tossing it aside. I just hear the shower inside the bath being on. I thank the God's more or less, until it hits me – how the bloody hell did he get out of the handcuffs? He didn't have the key, I hadn't given him the key, and Toby certainly hadn't.

I haven't gotten the chance to check his litter box either, as he's clearly just running around in the living room.

"Good morning!" I hear the cry of Martin in the living room. I poke my head out of the bedroom door. "Alarm clock didn't work," I say putting on a bright smile. Martin just smiles at me, before his gaze turns to my front. I look down, and find that some of my buttons have been opened more or less showing  _everything_. I hurriedly pull myself back in the bedroom, shutting the door. "I could make something in here," he says and I can hear him poking about in the kitchen. Oh shit, Sherlock's stuff. It is a right mess.  _God._  Luckily my breasts distracted him from straying too long outside my bedroom door. I grab some of the clothes from a nearby pile on a chair; pull them on hurriedly, before walking into the living room – my hair in disarray I can imagine. I stare at Martin who says "You look lovely," before giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

"I've probably got the worst breath though, Ben is using such a long time in the shower, as usual," I say with the most cheerful of expressions.

"He's not very tidy, is he?" he asks eyeing the area around the sofa.

"If he'd only been tidy and straight we'd work perfectly," I say pulling on Martin by his hand, as I get my bag.

"We could just stay though, I can see from your face that you need your cup of coffee," he says tapping me on my nose.

"No –  _no_  – I'm fine, we could just get a cup outside anyway," I say waving my hand breezily, but Martin just let's go off my hand walking off to the kitchen.

"I shall prove to you that I am a  _master-chef_ , and  _maybe_  I'll even make Ben tidy up after himself," he says giving me another kiss, but longer this time. Sherlock appears from the bedroom freshly showered clad with a towel just around his waist. I avoid ogling; of course I end up staring at his quite red wrist from the handcuffs of course, but why on earth is it so red? And how on earth did he get out of them?

"I'm here for breakfast," Martin says, going into the kitchen area, completely ignoring Sherlock's physique. He doesn't seem the least bit jealous, of course Sherlock is Ben. This Ben just smiles brightly "I'm _so_  sorry for not tidying up," giving the most apologetic of looks before winking at me. " _Nigel_ certainly kept me up on the phone last night. Barely slept a wink," he continues before settling down on the sofa.

We didn't – he's not –  _what the hell is going on?_

"Did you really? Things settled there, then?" I ask trying not to convey my absolute feeling of horror, before settling on a stool by the kitchen bench. Martin has removed his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, as he grins at me while he's obviously mixing some omelette.

"Oh gosh no, I don't know, but he's been seeing this git called  _Alan_. Really annoying chap, you know, and well – oh you know," says Sherlock with the most theatrical of sighs. I almost feel like my eyes could roll into the back of my head. So,  _this_  is Benedict, then –  _right._  Alan –  _right._

"He doesn't deserve you!" Martin practically shouts, while frying up the omelette mixture, and even making some coffee. He's quite quick this one. I stare at him in absolute surprise, as I find myself soon with a plate in one hand and a coffee in the other being pushed into the direction of the sofa. I sit besides the still quite wet _Benedict_ , who peers at me with the most amused expression, as I stuff the omelette in my mouth – trying to avoid speech at all cost.


	9. I get a kick out of you

Truth be told of all the impossible scenarios I'd ever envisioned taking place during this year I had never imagine myself in car with Sherlock Holmes. I had never imagined myself in a car with Sherlock Holmes _driving_  said car with a couple of brainy specs, as his disguise. The fact that we were on our way to  _Hull_  - of all imaginable places. Hull, a place I had made excuses, and all imaginable sorts of work-related business found myself heading towards – with Sherlock Holmes pretending to be Martin. You're wondering aren't you? How did we come to this?  _Why_  are we heading to _Hull_? Oh, gosh, it's luckily not a very long story.

Let me set the scenario for you. We're back in my flat, it's still yesterday morning – I haven't brushed my teeth, I'm pushing food into my mouth slowly, grasping bits of egg and toast, avoiding all forms of communication, except that of occasional raised brows. I'm sitting squashed between the handsome detective with his double-act as Benedict who works with computers apparently, and my boyfriend Martin who's a painter. I'd like to add the fact that Benedict has yet to have put on proper clothes, for whatever reason, and is currently sitting still with a towel around his waist. I'm trying to keep my eyes on the telly, which I've turned on – to drown out their conversation.

At this point I don't see any point with staying, while these two have their silly pretend-conversation. We've got Martin who's just swallowing every word Sherlock is saying as the cheery Ben, who despite his real struggles in his relationship with Nigel – will find a way, despite this Alan. Come on - just  _come on_  - seriously? I just keep my tongue in my mouth, and focus on the real issue. Did he have a key? Did the man who'd locked himself to my bed last night accidentally – plan that? There's just something too odd with the fact that he had them on him, and even more odd that he'd loose them in Toby's food. The same cat, which is just running around happily, before resting himself on top of Sherlock's lap or towel or – well,  _don't look._

I checked Toby's cat sand too; there was no key to be found (OK, I didn't properly rummage, but Martin might have found it odd if I had). Of course I don't know if his bowl movements are slower than ours, or if keys like that sort of disintegrate due to their tininess.

Good lord, who am I kidding?

He didn't willingly handcuff himself to my bed.

That's madness.

Who does that?

_Sherlock Holmes does that._

Our shoulders are touching; I ignore his musky freshly cleaned smell, trying to fix my eyes on the telly, when Sherlock leans too close causing my face to be inches from his neck.  _Bastard_ , is he doing this on purpose?

Martin just keeps holding my hand happily, fiddling with it, and holding onto me without a care in the world it seems. He does think Ben is gay, or well thinks Sherlock is. The fact that he hasn't recognised the man still astounds me, but then again Martin doesn't even own a telly – he's not a great reader of papers either. His obliviousness is amazingly convenient to be honest. It's lucky, because he seemed to regard that as Ben being basically untidy. This reminds me of Julie who didn't know whom Sherlock even was before I told her. She's not very interested in reading people's blogs. The key is still the biggest mystery though, besides the red mark around his wrist, which almost looks bloody even – and of course last but not least – my open pyjama top. I wonder if that just opened accidentally. Yes, eight buttons had managed to open themselves entirely on their own. I've never been one for opening my buttons in my sleep either, no.

"Molly," says Martin attentively. I look at him.

"Yes," I say in a daze.

"Have you slept well?" he asks me. I probably look dreadful, I have not put on any makeup, my hair is unkempt, and I probably look cross due to all of this overthinking. Some times things are simple. They might not always be with Sherlock Holmes, but then again they've got to be at some point.

"She made an awful lot of noise," says Sherlock, before I've opened my mouth to answer, causing me to gape at him.

"Did _I_  now?" I say with perched lips. The conversation had been up to now a numerous amount of falsehoods piled up on another. Now, what was he trying to do?

Martin just laughed.

"Loads of muttering in your sleep. Almost felt like I could hear it right in  _my ear_ ," says Sherlock shaking his head gaily with mirth. I just stare at him frowning.

"Well, it took me some time to sleep when you were practically _chained_  to the phone with Nigel," I say putting on a terrible bright smile, marvelling that of Sherlock's false personality. Sherlock just looks at me, and for a moment he looks intrigued. He seems ready to retort, but the doorbell distracts our attention entirely. I stare at the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Martin asks.

"Not at all," I say surprised. Sherlock eyes me, and I end up going to the intercom.

"I better grab some clothes, if companies coming," he says disappearing into the bedroom.

I hope it isn't John Watson, and then I press the button on the intercom "Hello?"

"Yes, excuse me Miss. Is there a  _Benedict Fisher_  in the residence? There is quite the large package, with instructions of it being delivered here," says a young man's voice. I blink several times, before saying "Yes, of course. I'll let you in," buzzing him in. A package? How the hell does he get a package under my address – he doesn't even exist? Soon enough the young man appears, and asks for a signature on a clipboard, as he's set a big cardboard box on the doormat.

"Shouldn't  _he_  sign?" I ask the young man, who peers at Martin who sits on the sofa. I almost shake my head at him, but I resolve not to.

"It's alright Miss," he says giving a bit of a shrug, and I end up hurriedly signing his clipboard. "I'll just leave this here Miss if you don't mind," he says disappearing down the steps again, after I hand him the clipboard back. I stare at the package on the doormat, Martin shows up at my side, and soon he picks it up "Maybe it's from Nigel," he says amused, as he puts from appearances the heavy box on the table. "That or another admirer. _Well_ , I've got to go, so I won't get to see opening of said mystery box," he says chuckling, before giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh,  _right_  – work?" I say staring distractedly at the box.

Martin works part-time at a horribly quiet gallery, besides painting his own work. "Not much point in working in a gallery when nobody comes to see anything. I'll see you –  _possibly_  - later if you're shift isn't  _too_  long?"

"Remains to be seen," I say half-smiling; Martin cracks up over my extremely bad joke.

"We'll try to work in a lunch in there somewhere, then. Have a nice day at work at least, or well  _try_.  _Bye Benedict!"_  says Martin who receives a muffled goodbye from inside the bedroom. He soon walks off, after another quick kiss, and I stand by the door, before walking towards the living room table.

I stare at the box, which looks quite innocent there it sits on the mahogany table. There were no special markings, except my address and "his name" – everything machine-written. The bedroom door opens, and Sherlock appears fully clothed, frowning at the box from the doorway.

"He let you sign it?" he asks eyeing me for a second as I nod. He takes the mobile phone he nicked from the dead man out of his pocket. He's texting someone, but he just pockets it after he's done. I hand him a breadknife from the kitchen, my breath hitching up despite itself, for I can only imagine what it can be. Another clue I suppose. The first clue being a dead man, the second -

He goes forward and silently opens it up with the knife. Cutting through the tape, and sliding up the cardboard. There's bubble wrap, which he tosses carelessly aside, and other form for plastic, which he breaks through with the knife. The most horrendous of smells appears after the cutting of the plastic – a horribly recognisable smell in my case. He peers inside for a moment, looks up at me, and snaps it shut.

" _What_  is it?" I ask seeing that his face looks for a moment a bit stricken.

It passes as quickly as I saw it.

"A head," he says coolly opening the box again, letting the smell of rot sting our nostrils. I look inside, and see a recognisable face – one I'd never really expect.

"I thought she was dead," I say quietly for a moment, as he grasps a piece of paper that resides on the inside of the box itself.

"I helped her fake her beheading," he says almost a murmur, as he holds a piece of parchment between his fingers, and reads eyes narrowed on the slanted handwriting.

"Judging by the looks of her – this happened about a week ago," I say staring at the once pretty head of Irene Adler. Her expression is calm though.

"It is even written in her hand," he says frowning at the parchment. I'm just glad Martin wasn't here to see it –  _mystery box_  indeed. Sherlock just hands me the piece of paper, which is stained with some blood, and I read out loud  _"If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me."_

"Macbeth," I say putting the parchment on top of the table, before closing the box shut to hide away the smell even for a little. Sherlock seats himself in the sofa and stares blankly ahead.

"You should see me in a crown," says Sherlock quietly.

" _Moriarty_?" I asked.

"He  _was_  already king. I suppose we are dealing with his replacement. I presume you didn't notice the delivery boy," asked Sherlock.

"He looked yet 18, so I don't think he's involved."

"Don't be naïve Molly," says Sherlock with a smirk. I find it a bad moment to bring up the handcuffs or any of it to be honest. A woman who Sherlock might have had relations with turns up – _her head_  – in a box on our doorstep. It was too early days to discuss any of the sort, which was at this point trivial in comparison. I pick up my bag, and stand awkwardly, before asking the more appropriate question "Are you OK?" Sherlock looks at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and says, "I suggest you go to work. I'll dispose of this."

I bite my lip, before I reluctantly leave him to it.

The not-dead-then-dead woman haunts me. People have got to stop faking their deaths. This is obviously an on-going trend, which I've entirely missed out on. Whoever was behind all of this had a sick sense of humour, which wasn't entirely surprising when the person was supposed to be a successor to Jim. They'd already killed a man in the same manner of David, and now Sherlock got himself a reminder of someone in his past too. I dreaded to think what was in store next, and if it was going to someone important to me this time.

I stand at work cleaning out some of the utensils, as John Watson walks in looking frightfully apologetic.

"Hi," he says and I almost laugh – reminded of the night's events.

"Hello," I say still attending to the objects in front of me. He stands there uneasily, but oddly enough without his cane. Whoever this Mary Morstan was – she was obviously doing him something good.

"I'm sorry Molly. I shouldn't have barged in like that, and – err – well, it's your business what you do. I should have listened, before jumping to conclusions," he says chortling a bit.

"Oh yeah, not really a problem, you know. I just hope you weren't _too_  startled," I say grinning despite myself. I should be chastising myself, except now I'll seem even weirder in John Watson's mind. At this point it's really too late for that.

"No – no – no, of course not," he says, and I can see from his face that – yes, he was.

"I suggest you go and find your Mary Morstan," I say with an amused smile. John looks at me with raised brows.

"How'd you know about that?" he says.

_Shit._

"People do talk, you know," I say chattily.

"You're probably right," he says for a moment, before he excuses himself, and disappears. I obviously got lucky there. I should learn not to speak, before I'm entirely sure I'm saying information I'm supposed to know. I was worried, to be honest, worried about Sherlock and the whole thing. I would almost do Martin a service of breaking up with him at the moment, as things apparently started to escalate. I couldn't know where this would go. Dead bodies and severed heads showing up at my flat - Honestly, what was going to be next? At this point nothing could surprise me anymore. If they sent a live one, maybe then I'd be a bit surprised, but I felt almost unfazed by the whole thing. The whole thing had a grim reaper sensibility to it. The worst being death, except I've always been surrounded by it, which was in itself possibly a clue? No, maybe not.

When I finally finished at work - after a rather lengthy amusing telephone conversation with mum, who went on and on about how she'd still not met Martin's mother "The woman's a bleeding enigma at this point. She's got her high-to-do-fancy-up-town-events, and I've got the kettle on, that's what I've got. Lots of things have changed, obviously." I went back to my flat, feeling tired, and it was luckily cleared.

Sherlock just sits by his laptop in complete silence, screen lighting up his face, as he says, "The slip of paper was from Hull - is Hull  _relevant_  to you?" I see his face, and I know he knows already.

"I lived there at  _some_ point," I say shrugging.

_Well_ , I lived there my entire life, a sheltered horrible childhood. Not horrible, just dreadful, with taunting kids, and absolutely air-headed ex-boyfriends who sort of cradle that place. I got out, and I was happy to get out to be honest. After dad died there weren't many charms in that area, except possibly mum, who'd never left, despite always saying she would. I remember just promising myself I wouldn't become that person.

Sherlock looks at me for a moment, obviously thinking and considering.

"Can you take some days off work?" he asks.

"Not really," I say furrowing my brows.

"We will leave in the morning," he just says clasping his hands together and looking pensive. "I've already settled everything with Mycroft. He has sorted everything at work for you already."

I frown. Everything's settled already? Good lord.

"What about Martin?" I ask raising my brows at him.

He really is an idiot some times.

"What  _about_ him?" he asks looking at me in genuine surprise.

"I can't just go off on a bloody holiday with you in the middle of the week."

"Yes, you can – this is  _not_  a holiday – this is  _research_. Martin will be easy to persuade. Use your womanly wiles. I suggest a nice sweet phone call. Tell him I've got to get away, and you're helping this - a sort of recreational road-trip."

"We're  _driving_  there?  _To Hull_?" I say grimacing, before Toby takes to pawing at my legs "But I  _can't_ leave Toby," I almost screech out picking him up, and looking at him like he's completely helpless.

"Your neighbour next door," Sherlock just says with that odd quirky amused smile of his. I settle down in the chair defeated, glaring at him, with Toby in my lap. " _What_  are we doing there?"

"Research Doctor Hooper.  _Research_ ," says Sherlock putting the laptop aside for a moment.

"I don't think you'll find anything interesting in Hull."

"Our new crowned king begs to differ," says Sherlock who alludes to the box.

"Then what about the other parchment then. It was from Essex. I didn't see you running off to Essex exactly."

"I might give the impression of being house-trained. Doesn't mean I keep in doors at all times," he says, as Toby hops on the sofa resting right besides him. Sherlock doesn't shrink away from him, but quietly pets him to my surprise.

"Did you find anything, then?" I ask.

Sherlock just looks at me intently "When we're in Hull - I will be Martin."

Not answering questions, yet still managing to give me new startling information.

" _What?"_  I say.

"Your mother lives there. It would be rather inappropriate if you were to go there with another man – don't you think? I couldn't go there being Benedict without some repercussions."

"Can't you go on your own?" I ask.

"There is a reason this piece of paper is from Hull. You might want to put aside your childish dislike for this place, and accept the fact that your life might as well be in danger as mine is," says Sherlock with a serious expression. "Already we have had a dead man and a woman's severed head in a box. I would be a bit more alarmed if I were you."

There was something quite unsettling with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was telling me off for not being hysterical.

"I don't know," I just say staring at my hands sighing loudly. "I'm not really worried for myself. I've never been really fuzzy when it comes to death. Some times I do wish I could be a bit more worried about it."

Sherlock laughs.

"Now, I've got to ask, and don't read too much into this. It's just because I'm a bit –  _well_  – curious, and it has to be asked. No better time than the related present, so – did you always have the key to the handcuffs?" I ask, blubbering on a little bit, despite myself, but still managing to meet Sherlock's eyes. The same blue eyes that hold my gaze, but Sherlock just smirks – before saying "Go to bed Doctor Hooper, I won't keep you company tonight," directing his attention to that bloody well lit laptop of his (technically mine, but at this point I might just give it to him).


	10. Let's call the whole thing off

We did the packing in the middle of the night, or well _I_  did the packing in the middle of the night, as he stood by telling me "Your mother has not met Martin yet. At least not grown-up Martin, so there is no problem there."  _No problem there?_  He's phoned my mum. He apparently had a long conversation with her, as Martin Ames. Martin Ames, the painter, Martin Ames the nice young man, which Sherlock certainty isn't. I glare at him, while I pack things as instructed. He's even bought new clothes for the event, and I stare at the clothes curiously – plaid and whatnot. He was very keen on being in character it seemed, as the clothes were carbon copies of what Martin wore. All but the pair of glasses, "Short-sightedness is luckily something one can acquire," he says with a small smile, as he puts on the glasses. He didn't ditch the leather-jacket though, which I pointed out, and he quipped, "I do not need to entirely embody him (sounds like an excuse to look cool, to be honest – he does look cool though). That is  _why_  I have got you with me." I was to be myself of course, but his _girlfriend_. The whole situation was surreal, and it truly hit me, as we sat driving towards  _Hull_.

"What do you - listen to?" he asks me, as we sit in the rented car. I waited for him to add the -  _you humans_ , as it seemed more fitting at the moment. Since I saw him prodding throughout the various channels frowning, buzzing sounds coming from the radio "Maybe radio-silence would be a good idea?" I say, with crossed arms, and furrows in my brows despite myself. I knew we were going because things were getting dangerous. I knew we were going to find out who was behind the whole bloody thing, but I felt like putting myself into the backseat and weeping openly. I had promised never to set foot on Hull again, especially after what had happened last time. He shuts off the radio entirely, eyeing me, with his normal expressions.

There was something almost off-putting with Sherlock in plaid. Especially Sherlock with ginger hair, and it wasn't before now I could properly look at him without the ridiculous interruption or distraction of dead bodies and decapitated heads. Of course I wasn't just openly staring at him - that would be mental, I was spying on him from the reflection on the car-window. I had to be stealthy in my looking, I couldn't openly stare at him, but I knew he probably caught me looking anyway. He didn't seem to be bothered, and even gave the air of being a serious driver, which was a thing I'd never suppose he did. I had almost always imagined that he was the sort of man who let everyone else drive for him. "How come you know how to drive?" I ask, the question coming out of my mouth, before I really consider the accusations that might come with me asking.

His eyes dart into my direction.

"It is a convenient skill," he just says, and the silence continues.

I frown a little, before saying, "You live in central London though, and you don't own a car. Your choice of transport has always been a taxi."

"I need it for moments like this."

" _Odd_."

He looks at me in surprise.

"Is it odd that I know how to drive?"

"Well, yes, you don't strike me as a driver, to be honest, and well – it looks  _weird_."

"Looks weird? It does not look _weird_ ," he says looking affronted.

I almost giggle, mentally berating myself for saying what I'm saying, but he's not exactly answering my questions about the handcuffs exactly. He's been avoiding any proper answers since the incident. I started keeping a constant eye on Toby's bowl-movements last night and this morning - making me genuinely worried for my own mental-health.

"When we get to Hull we have to act as a real couple. You have to treat me as if I am Martin," he says causing me to sigh quite loudly.

_God, here we go._

Here comes the problem.

I had hoped, the gentle pat on the back, and the possible kiss on the cheek was the sort of couple we were going to be. I'd already had the disturbingly awkward phone-call with Martin. I had enough with it already; my brain couldn't take anymore at this point. How did that go? Well, I lied. I properly lied. I wasn't going on any recreational road-trip, no,  _flipping no_  – I was going on a work-related trip, which would just lead me into Hull. I just feigned that I hated leaving, especially to Hull, and Martin agreed with me on the phone. It wasn't much of a lie really. I just avoided mentioning that Sherlock was going with me. Not the worst of admittance –  _Ben_  was going to stay in London, not at my place, but at some admirers flat receiving flattering comments. I'd just slip when I would return that the whole thing went down quite horrendously, causing Ben to move into mine again – no problem. "How long will you be gone?" Martin asks, a question I hadn't even properly considered.

A question I even asked Sherlock. For all I knew it might be a in and out operation (no, don't even go there). "I'm not quite certain. Some days I suppose," I just said biting my lip uneasily. The lies that I've served Martin – if he breaks up with me when the truth is out, then I wouldn't be properly surprised to be honest. Then again, I am sure he'd manage the whole ordeal quite spectacularly – I'll just inform him that I  _did_  fancy Sherlock Holmes, but I do  _not_  now.

_Now_  I just end up staring at his reflection, eyeing him occasionally in the rear-mirror, our elbows sometimes grazing, as I stretch out for my water bottle, which is strategically placed between us (there's this sort of fancy holder for it, ok?).

"I'll try to act my best as myself," I say taking a sip from my bottle, with Sherlock eyeing me. I should have considered, he probably doesn't like taking toilet-breaks, which causes me to drink an even bigger gulp of my water purely to irritate him. I know we are supposed to be serious, but I cannot take it too seriously. I'm so used to Sherlock having serious events around him, I'm just not usually stuck in the middle of the explosion. I'm usually in my office, he enters, asks for something, and I give it to him. Suddenly I'm helping him fake his death, and  _suddenly_  we're investigating two murders.

"You have not actually been the best  _girlfriend_ ," says Sherlock, who practically spits the last word out, causing me to look at him in surprise.

I furrow my brows " _You_  haven't actually been the best  _flatmate_  either. Your appearance is the reason everything's been a mess," I say exasperated.

"So –  _I_  am the reason as to why you've been paying less attention to Martin, then?" he says, the hint of a smile on his face. I gape, recovering quickly saying, "You bring dead bodies and severed heads – I think a girl has allowance to be a bit baffled, don't you?"

"I would have thought that you would jump on the chance to be  _closer_ to him, than anything," he says.

Closer? Is he actually hinting to what I think he's hinting?

"What are you trying to say?"

"Just try to be  _convincing_  Doctor Hooper," he says.

Well, we're not talking about sex, then. I am relieved.

"I will be," I say quite heatedly. Silence returns to the car. I regret having him not turn on the radio, which causes me to reluctantly fidget with the buttons, before "She sells Sanctuary," by the Cult comes up - the perfect song for a drive. I turn the volume up; Sherlock tunes it down, albeit to a sound level I can still hear the lyrics at. We eye each other, before sitting there with the music playing, and I don't properly know what to do with my arms. I uncross them, before trying to take the seat a bit more back. Leaning comfortably as I push it a bit further back, marvelling in the new car smell, "Gimme Shelter," by the Rolling Stones starts playing on the radio. I stiffen in my seat; I avoid looking at Sherlock altogether, as he obviously catches my change in behaviour. Almost four hours of this.

Almost four hours of sitting in a car trapped with Sherlock Holmes. If this had been the stammering Molly Hooper sitting besides him, she would turn a colour turnip, and have great visualizations in her head – fortunately I don't turn turnip – I've just got images flickering in my head. You ask why? Oh, well, this is the song I lost my virginity to. A girl never forgets that sort of thing. Luckily the song doesn't go on for more than four minutes. About four minutes and thirty-one seconds of me sitting uncomfortably in my seat, fidgeting ever so slightly, while peering uneasily out of my car-window. Does he notice? He probably won't notice. Good lord, that really is ages ago. I was 18, late considering that everyone else I'd known had shagged, and I ended up shagging Billy Parker in the back-seat of his car with this song going on. I didn't regret it, since I wasn't drunk, but it wasn't perfect – he certainly did not last the four minutes and thirty-one seconds.

" _Conversation_ , we should manage to keep it up. We will have to pretend so in Hull," says Sherlock after the song finally ends, and he turns off the radio. I raise my brows at this. He wants to talk; of course we had the big conversation when he was chained to my headboard. I hope we're not going into a similar conversation now. I had enough with the morning after, when we spoke, or rather talked around the subject. Good lord. I've never heard so much subtext in my life.

"What are we looking for exactly?" I ask diverting the topic entirely to what we were going to do.

"Information - if there is a connection to the medical company over there," he says looking distracted, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

I almost suggest the Internet, but Sherlock doesn't seem like a person who isn't Internet-savvy to begin with – he has been hoarding over my laptop, which he also brought - so I keep my mouth shut.

"It is evident that you aren't pleased with this development Molly."

I can feel the deduction coming up. He will now peel off in a long rant, in which I end up wanting to burrow myself deep in the car seat.

" _Why_  is that?" he asks instead. I do a double take. I'd almost prefer the hostile "Of course I can see from the way you hold your hands in your lap that you are dreading things, due to the fact that you were once called the town spinster at the age of 12, which I can deduce by the turn-ups on your shoes." Well, of course I don't think he'd entirely deduce in  _that_  manner, but you know he'd manage to figure out that I was indeed called spinster somehow or the other. "Oh, well, Hull wasn't a very pleasant time for me," I say uneasily.

He furrows his brows, as our eyes meet in the mirror.

"Then why did you react on the song?"

"What?" I say startled.

He just had to ask didn't he?

"What song?"

"The song on the radio."

"I love that song," I just say smiling broadly.

" _Molly_ ," he says reminding me of my dream, causing another shade of crimson to hit me like a wave on my face. He would always have that effect on me I suppose.

"Yes?" I say innocently.

"You might convince Martin, but you will not convince me."

"I beg to differ," I say sounding almost offended. I'm not offended though. Oh god -  _are we flirting?_

"Is that a challenge?" he says quirking a brow.

We  _are_  flirting.

"Answer the question about the handcuffs then."

" _Which_ one of them – I think at present there must be more than one question about the handcuffs, don't you think? – or else you disappoint Doctor Hooper," he says, with a slight serious expression, though with that smirk of his. I grin despite myself, reminding myself of Martin quite hurriedly, which removes the grin as quickly as it came.

"I'm not answering any more questions, until you say so," I say giving a sigh.

"I suppose I should turn on the radio, then," he says, at which both of us reach out to turn it on, our hands brushing, and I remove my hand slowly away turning even more crimson by the second. God, this was how it was going to be? We're just friends you know. I'm really hoping that the more I say that, the more I'll believe it. The man is Teflon though. Who throws themselves on Sherlock Holmes? No one does. If one were to - one would most likely fall flatly on the ground or car seat, as I am currently residing on – entirely as the passenger. What do I actually expect? I am  _here_  as cover story, possibly a bit help on the side, but nothing extraordinary. I am Molly Hooper,  _just_ Molly – the pathologist, heading towards her old town, which saw her as nothing but  _Mental-Molly_ from age 8 and up. I end up turning off the radio.

"Now, I've got to ask, it's just worrying me –  _so_  – who's Alan?" I say.

"Alan is an invention."

"An invention – that's it, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a convenient false character to make Benedict more authentic. It does add to his character, does it not?" he says smugly.

"Fine," I say, turning on the radio again.

Sherlock looks at me inquiringly, before shutting off the sound again.

"Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious."

"You said it  _worried_  you," he says, using my words against me – the bastard.

"I thought you were talking about Martin," I said frustrated.

"Martin, well,  _yes_ , he  _does_  irritate me," says Sherlock as a matter-of-factly.

"You  _were_  talking about him, then?"

"Alan is fiction," he just repeats.

"OK," I say exasperated turning on the music again. We just sat there, music blaring in the background, eyes plastered to the front this time. All my thoughts were fiction. Wait – I turn off the music, gape at him, before saying "I must have been too tired to even think it through. Why on earth did you have the keys to your handcuffs when you fed Toby? –  _That_  makes absolutely no sense."

"I didn't," he just says, causing the silence to be quite big.

"Oh –right – well – then – yes - so – _right_ – you did have the keys?" I babble more or less.

"I had grabbed them at the same time with the cuffs of course," he says looking at me in slight disbelief. "I am not an idiot."

"So you could have left?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't?"

"Obviously," he says snorting.

"Why?"

"Will it help you if I tell you why?"

" _Yes."_

He looks at me, not in the rear-view mirror, not by a glance, but he properly turns his head towards me.

"I am not a big fan of your sofa," he just says, before turning the radio back on.


	11. A fine romance

We're in  _Hull_  - at a bed and breakfast -  _one room_  -  _one bed_  - and one fake boyfriend. I have to admit that I was shocked at the change of demeanour. One moment we're sitting in the car, in absolute resolute silence, which fell the moment he said that  _sentence_. Though what was I expecting really? "Yes, Molly, I want you, that's why I chained myself to your bed," like anyone does it. That sofa is actually quite uncomfortable, and the red marks were probably from straining in the handcuffs you know. It all seems logical, which irritates the hell out of me. One moment I almost think we're having subtext in our conversation, possibly even flirting, and then he utters the word  _sofa_  - diminishing every single thought. Yes, there you go Molly Hooper, falling flat on your arse, believing for a shred of a second something so ridiculously silly! Of course it was the sofa! He probably got a kick out of pretending he was forced to stay there, though. Sherlock Holmes actually manages to let the key get eaten by my cat, honestly – no, of course not. I regret having tried to poke through Toby's  _specimen_ , more or less. He did look quite ruffled when I was rummaging in his cat sand. I felt like I was prodding in his private life myself.

Anyway,  _yes_ , we get out of the car.

One moment he's still Sherlock Holmes, and then all of a sudden there is a smile on his face. My jaw almost drops, it's an eye-crinkling smile, and I can still spot the falseness in it though. There's not _that_  spark in his eye, but it could fool the best of them – it fooled Martin after all. This is his cover – a happy man, a fool more or less. I wonder what this supposedly means?

We enter the very posh looking  _Acorn Guest House,_ with it's furniture, fresh flowers, and fruit – Sherlock carries _all_  the luggage, holds the door open for me, and let's me walk in ahead of him. I glance at him uneasily, while having this fake smile plastered on my face. He soon drops the bags on the carpet, by the reception, gives a bit of a sigh, before his arm slides around my waist in the most natural way. There his hand just rests, before he suddenly stands behind me holding me entirely, while nuzzling me on the neck.

_I am as stiff as a board_.

I've never been this uncomfortable in my life. Dead bodies or severed heads aside – this _is_  probably the worst. I could compare it to the first time I ever cut open a dead body, but it won't even come close. I can almost feel the shakes coming, but I breathe deeply instead. I try to focus on the tanned receptionist who finishes her phone-call, before directing her attention to us. She gives us a broad smile, and Sherlock gives one in return, before separating from me – but not before giving me a quick chaste kiss on the neck. This is apparently something we do _all_  the time. I can just feel the blush creep up, and I start waving my face, pretending it is the hot day that takes me.

The receptionist eyes land on Sherlock, who charmingly gets out a card quite quickly. Some false identification he's gotten from Mycroft obviously, and I just glance at him as the woman eats his story up entirely ("Oh, a wee bit of a holiday, you know. Hull seems like a lovely relaxed place. Not too much, but just right"). She looked like she was ready to eat him up herself ("Absolutely Mr Ames, you're quite right!"), but when the luggage gets taken away for us – he grasps my hand, and leads me along. I've never seen any woman send me an uglier look in my life, and I feel like saying  _"He's mine yes",_  except I remind myself of my  _actual_ boyfriend who's working at the moment. He's been texting me frequently, and I feel the smallest tingles of guilt.  _Here I am_  on a holiday or well I wouldn't call it a holiday. Yet when we enter the absolutely handsome bedroom, with the one bed, and an amazing view – I almost actually like Hull. Of course we're 2 miles out of the city centre, but I don't hate it with a passion as I had thought (probably because I'm relieved to be out of the car).

Sherlock is not Martin anymore though, which can be seen seconds after the luggage has been dropped off, and his laptop is in front of him. I almost ask why we make a show in front of the receptionist, but he answers me without me needing to say it - "She is a gossip. Quite distracted when we came in – some social network was open on the computer, and  _that_  was a personal call," he says drily, looking at me amused, before adding, "It is easier having _one_  solid performance before one person, than having to keep it up entirely, don't you think?" There's finality in that statement, which meant there would be no more. No warm hand pressing upon mine, and no more feeling of his breath on my neck.  _Thank god._  He directs his attention again to the laptop, and smiles, before shutting the screen. _"_ The only place that offered _WIFI_  - the reason I chose this place," he says. I quirk my brow at him - He's suddenly telling me more than usual, which is strange in a way. Is this how it feels to be John Watson, I suppose? All of a sudden  _all_ the taps have been opened. I suppose a clever disguise makes that happen. He's Martin Ames,  _my boyfriend_  for now, and it's odd. Luckily it won't last very long, and I'll just have to get used to the odd touching once in a while (if it happens again, he seemed adamant that it wouldn't). I walk out on the balcony, and stare at  _Hull_. It's quite a view. How would I describe it? It's green, see, I'm not John Keats, but it's lush, as some would say - lush  _and_  green.

"I didn't know we needed the view. We're not going to be staying here much, are we?" I say, and he says, "We will have to try to keep up appearances. We'll return at night. I hope you don't have any problem  _now_  of sharing the bed," he says. I just shake my head, and settle sheepishly at the chair on the balcony, before shutting my eyes for some seconds. "You will have to show me around today, we'll just walk - see the sights."

"There's not much to see in Hull really," I say yawning.

"We'll have to pretend there is. I am sure we can come up with something. We will eat dinner together, at least, and you'll have to keep an eye open," he says. I just nod briefly with my eyes shut, before opening my eyes "Eyes open for what exactly?" I say turning my head to look at him. Sherlock is currently unbuttoning the plaid shirt he is wearing, as he tosses the specks on the bed. I was suddenly glad my eyes were open, despite myself. He stands up, opening the cuffs of his shirt, before saying "Molly, your father was a doctor," he says as a matter-of-factly. My dad was one of the reasons I went into the business, except I went in a more different direction than he did of course.

"Yes, he was one of the regulars in Hull. Everyone loved him," I say, a smile automatically in my face, almost forgetting that Sherlock is opening his shirt (he's got a white t-shirt underneath though).

"He worked as a surgeon in London before," he says. Dad had, but he abhorred the line of work he told me. I look expectantly at Sherlock, who then drops the apparent bombshell – the minor detail I had absolutely forgotten – the one reason as to why David got his job in the first place – "He worked for the same medical company – that David later got a job with." He sits in the white shirt staring at me pointedly.

"David didn't even get that job before after dad died too," I say with a frown.

Dad did hate that company, but he hadn't worked there regularly. It wasn't his main-thing. I never knew it was significant. I'd never even properly considered it really, then again – I never really thought that Moriarty had something to with David either.

"Very inconvenient for David –but we need to speak with your mother. There is something I need to talk with her about." I blanch.

"No,  _I_ \- you - can't – you've – what  _if_  she - she'll think  _you're_  Martin," I say startled.

"That  _is_ the point, Molly. I hoped you had caught on that already," he says amused _unnecessarily_  removing his white shirt, revealing his toned back, before disappearing into the bathroom – the door slamming behind him. I was left on the balcony with the crossest of expressions. He had already phoned her, I should have known – he's probably scheduled a sort of meet-up, without having informed me, and then the taps are all closed again.

We end up driving to central Hull of course, walking about, a dinner date just on the corner with mum, who was in abject glee on the phone. Sherlock had not been recognised whatsoever, despite openly walking about, he said, "People tend to ignore the obvious," as if that explained it, but people did look at him _. Women specifically_. It was as if Hull had never seen an attractive man before, I was just waiting for people to recognise me. I'd known many here, but those who I saw didn't seem to recognise me at all. I suppose there was a certain difference between  _her_ and me. Shockingly enough I was much more insecure then, than I am now, even with Sherlock Holmes holding my hand - at the moment. I wouldn't call myself  _insecure_  at the moment either, more ridiculously giddy, or mental due to my  _faux_  boyfriend. Probably  _mental Molly_  rearing her ugly head more or less. God.

"You already scheduled that with my mum, didn't you?" I ask him, as we sit on a bench. He's luckily just lazily holding onto my hand. He turns to face me, saying, "Yes."

"I do hope there is  _more_  than just dinner with my mum," I say.

"Depends on your mother," he says, and all of a sudden the lazy hand is gone. I'm soon pulled towards him, my face into his neck, as he whispers briefly in my ear "Don't move." I do as he commands, and sit there feeling his ragged breath on my ear. His eyes are trained on something, but I can't see – soon enough he's released me – his hand idly on my knee this time.

"What was that?" I ask looking around, people are just passing us, and there is nothing out of the ordinary. He just looks pensive, before bringing out the dead man's phone, walking off a small distance. I stare at his back in surprise. I can only hear small bits of the conversation really.

"- Yes – no – I think it was – I'm not seeing things no. Why would he be here? He's following us? I had hoped that  _show_  convinced him – maybe not." At that Sherlock hangs up the phone, settling down besides me, his cool hand on my knee again.

"I thought I saw John," he says.

That's rather upfront; I'd not expected that.

"Oh, are you sure?"

He looks at me, "Or maybe my mind was playing tricks with me," this causes me to frown.

" _What?"_  I say.

He looks at me in earnest surprise.

" _What?"_  he repeats. "I said I had obviously imagined it."

"You just don't go  _imagining_  things," I say, and he sighs, before grabbing for my hand again, which I end up pulling towards myself.

"I think you better tell me what's going on," I say more cross than I actually am.

"Molly, do you trust me?" he just says with a serious expression. "Yes," I say without blinking. He gives a first genuine smile in Hull, brief, but it was still real. " _Then_ let us have dinner," he just says, taking hold of my hand, and I end up being pulled along by Sherlock Holmes – as always.


	12. I've got you under my skin

_Martin Ames_  - my boyfriend was currently at home – sitting with a pint, with some friends, according to the various text messages he'd been frequently sending me to avert me from falling into a stupor of boredom. How could I honestly be bored? There was not really anything boring with Sherlock Holmes pretending to be Martin Ames – Sherlock Holmes who'd packed one of my prettiest blue dresses in my bag, and requested me to wear it for the evening –  _that_  and a piece of jewellery that he  _as Martin_  had apparently given me. It was a pretty silver dove, and looked very expensive "We've been dating a month though, I don't know if expensive jewellery is the way to go," I say peering at the open box with surprise.

Sherlock just hands the box to me saying nothing. "I'll wait for you downstairs." He'd not really informed me anymore about the medical company and the connection really. I didn't quite get how my dad had anything to do with the whole thing. Of course it doesn't help when the clever detective is keeping you out of the loop, despite feeding you some information once in a while. He'd dressed himself in a suit with a tie, which he did not look pleased with wearing; as I saw his back to me I swore I could see him fiddling with his mobile phone. He'd been using that a lot now. I was used to him texting, but he'd been taking it up more frequently than usual during our entire time in Hull.

It was odd that I was now going to meet mum who I had briefly spoken on the phone just with. She seemed elated. I was in a relationship, the first for many years, and she was going to meet my new boyfriend. I could just imagine the horror if she knew this was in fact not Martin. We were lucky that she hadn't seen a picture of him yet. Martha Ames was too busy doing her curating, to do anything else according to mums weekly long phone rants. Martin would just say "Well, to be honest – mum has always been horrid when it comes to making appointments that don't pay her," and I'd feel guilty that he'd take the heath. Now I felt guilty that Sherlock Holmes was impersonating him to a tee, except the small slips of a less than ordinary man came shining out anyway (certain things a good disguise could not hide).

So, I got dressed grudgingly dreading the evening's events, with my mother who'd probably go on a long "Oh, Molly here – oh, you should have seen her when she was a little girl-," – rants about how extremely on the edge of tears I had her. I don't want him to know - why would I want him to know about this? He shouldn't know anything about my childhood. Of course this wouldn't stop mum from embarrassing me. Mum knew of Sherlock Holmes, not properly, but she'd heard of him during my long winding romanticizing of his character, which always ended with her saying "Love, he sounds like a bit of a git," which he is, but I was a bit distracted to otherwise really consider this fact at the time.

Who wants to really admit their taste in men? Every other man I'd ever fancied had been this nice pleasant character, but Sherlock didn't suit any of those descriptions. Oh, what am I saying? We're just friends anyway. I don't – after this is done, it's all over – he'll come out (unintentionally funny there), and we won't have to speak about it anymore. I clutch my purse in my hands, before disappearing out of our hotel room wandering down the steps to greet him. He's sitting in the hotel lobby looking pensive, and then he sees me. He looks surprised, but I remember – he's Martin Ames - my boyfriend for the evening. He says, "You look lovely," and I give him a small smile, catching the disgusted eye of the receptionist, before we walk off. Everything's a game, so I'd better play it up. He puts his hand on the small of my back, before leading me outside where a taxi is waiting. "Is the place we're going to rather posh?"

"Only the best," he says smugly.

He certainly did want to impress my mother.

We arrive at what is a horribly over-the-top extravagant place. The sort of place where the napkins are made of proper cloth, and you're a bit frightened of making them dirty. I was suddenly glad he'd chosen my attire, I could almost imagine what mum was going to wear, but knowing her she probably knew of this place. She was undoubtedly delighted that we were going to eat at here. I just ended up eyeing some of the other guests, certain of them looked entirely out of place, and others looked with distain if anyone so much as glanced in their general direction. I grinned despite myself eyeing the silverware, as Sherlock seated me promptly. Now we just had to wait for my mother.

"A bottle of champagne, sir?" asked a waiter, soon appearing, and Sherlock just nodded briefly, as our glasses were being filled. "Molly, just follow my lead," he says brows knitted together, before a dazzlingly bright smile is plastered on his face, as he's obviously caught sight of my mother. I would like to know how he knew it was her, but I avoid the question, and turn around to the woman who soon gives me a big hug.

"Molly, you look wonderful!" she exclaims holding me by my shoulders. To be fair it has been a while. She'd often visit London, but I would – well – never visit Hull. Mum's eyes fall on the necklace, they widen a bit, before she directs her attention to Sherlock, "I felt I recognised you - look at you – a bean pole. I always thought you'd be rather short," she says fondly. I'm glad that her recognition is rather poorly, as she soon gives Sherlock a hug. I can see that despite his act he's surprised at this sudden affection. He doesn't know just  _how_  desperate she is for grandchildren apparently.

This was the first certain sign that things might look up – apparent from my mother's pleased expression when Sherlock held the chair out for her, raising her brows at me suggestively, I almost felt ill. Just a little bit, I was happy she was pleased, despite the fact that everything was a show on her behalf. The fact that my mum supposedly had some information that Sherlock wanted to wiggle out of her seemed baffling. I couldn't even imagine what she supposedly knew that was important at this point. Yes, we knew dad worked for the company, so? Shouldn't all the information be easy to access to, possibly steal, but I suppose some of it must have been destroyed or be  _too_  confidential? I didn't really know, but I felt uneasy all the same. I didn't want my mum to be mixed up in anything. I could only imagine how she'd deal with it – spectacularly well actually.

"How are you really now Molly dear?" asks mum cheekily, eyeing Sherlock in the process.

She thinks he's handsome, apparent by her suggestive wink.

"I'm good mum, I really am. How are you?" I ask smiling, putting on a much broader smile than intended.

I can feel its force in my cheeks.

"The same old, you know. Hull never changes. Must say this is the first time I've ever been here. Quite a classy place, isn't it? I didn't know your family had  _this_ sort of money Martin," she says eyeing Sherlock with a more serious expression on her face.

So, this was how it was going to be – an interrogation. I can see from Sherlock's face that he'd supposed something entirely different from my mother. Everyone expects something different from my mum. "I've earned some money on my own, with work and my art," he says quite chattily in a happy manner, the same that Martin displays. "Mum is also quite generous," he adds rather boldly. I almost raise my brows, but I take a big sip from my champagne instead.

"Yes, your mother. Good lord, I've had trouble of getting hold of that woman. Martha was so much more attainable before, really, but it isn't your fault that your mother is horrible in keeping her appointments. I do hope you are better at keeping  _your_  promises," she says leaning forward on the table, before throwing down in a large swallow most of her champagne. I almost laughed. My mum is an accomplished drinker, didn't I say? Not in the alcoholic sense, but all those evenings she'd meet her friends to "knit". Well, they weren't knitting at all. I could see Sherlock looking at the empty glass, before saying "No, I like to think I can keep my promises." He eyes me, before slipping his hand on mine. Mum looked sincerely content.

"How is work, then dear? Positively brimming over with dead people, then?" I flinched a bit at the comment, but my mum has a tendency to be a bit severe when it came to my work. She didn't entirely wrinkle her nose at it.

"I always wished she would go into the line of work her father did you know. He was a rather accomplished surgeon. When we moved out here from London though – things changed, but people still talk of him," she says with a smug smile. We're already on the topic of dad, and that was after _one_  glass of champagne.

The waiter soon asks us if we're ready to order, mum just briefly glances at the menu, before choosing the most expensive item on it, eyeing Sherlock all the time with a smile. I down my own glass of champagne, feeling sick to the stomach. My mother is not a bad woman, but it was clear that she was testing  _Martin_. I was suddenly glad that I had Sherlock here instead – just because I didn't think Martin would tolerate my mother as much to be honest. "Another bottle of champagne, too," says Sherlock adding in a returning smile to my mother. His hand has still not left mine, and soon enough he slides it down to rest on my thigh. I almost blink in surprise over the subconscious movement, before ordering something written in French, which  _Martin_  knows apparently.

I was starting to wonder if Martin could ever actually live up to this sort of expectation. I could only imagine the conversation I'd have with mum about this on a later occasion "That man was Sherlock Holmes, and not Martin?" "Yes, he was just pretending to be Martin." "Why?" "So, he could get information from you." Even in my head that didn't sound probable, yet here we were sitting - the exact scenario happening. "What sort of surgeon?" asks Sherlock curiously, attention fixed on my mother who is quite happy to be asked, as she sips on her new glass champagne. "Well, before he went to Hull, and went domestic as a family doctor," she says.

"A good one, mind you," I add in a smile, despite myself. She laughs. "Yes, quite true. People still talk about him, anyway – he was a proper surgeon - for plastic operation."

"Really?" says Sherlock looking eager.

I could tell him that, of course, but he didn't seem to want to know it from me apparently.

"Yes, well he was very good. Working for this company who did some free work on soldiers who'd been through hell and back - young soldiers who had been through some heavy injuries. Quite the charitable affair, but then – one day he just up and quit," she says with a frown.

"Why?" I ask. Dad had never really spoken of it, he'd brushed the topic aside, so many times when I was younger, but I'd always gotten the sense that he was ashamed of it. I found the whole affair odd really. "Well, dear, he was not proud of it. One of his last cases, it was when you were still young, you know. There was a young boy, who was the son of a very prominent figure – he had been beaten up. It was quite the sordid affair really, as it seemed that the young boy had been through it due to his father," she said almost a whisper. No wonder that dad didn't like talking about it. "Your father salvaged his face, but the young boy was quite upset. He kept saying again and again that he'd gotten his father's face. It wasn't your father's fault, the young man was just not right in the head, for several reasons of course – and then the young boy had taken his own life. He was so little and they were _so_  surprised. Your father never forgot it, haunted him until he past away. I'm sorry I never told you dear, I just didn't want you to think ill of him."

"No, no of course not. Why would I? Dad did what he could – it wasn't his fault," I said distraught.

"I would have told you sooner, but what happened to David. Well, dear, I didn't feel it appropriate to breach a subject like that," she said with a sad face, and I saw she meant it, but she gave Sherlock and me a big grin. "We shouldn't talk about such grim things over champagne."

"I hope you don't find this too odd, but I'm just curious really – what was the boys name?" asked Sherlock all of a sudden, looking sympathetic.

"Oh  _gosh_ , that's a long time ago. Your father of course never forgot it. Well – hmm, it started with an M, yes-," No, it couldn't be. "Mor-," Oh god.

" _Moran_ , Sebastian Moran," she said, and I felt like a huge weight lifted off me. Sherlock's hand stiffened on my thigh none the less, and soon it disappeared "I am so sorry, I've got to go to the lavatory, I'll be back," he says giving me a quick kiss on the cheek, before walking off. He soon brought up the phone from his pocket, before disappearing around the corner into the direction of the men's room.

"Sorry, for being such a downer, love," says mum smiling at me sweetly.

"It's not your fault. I suppose we'd have to get there at some point," I say.

"Yes, well, he's lovely – he really is," she says grinning.

"Thanks," I say.

"I almost thought he was overdoing it for a moment. Pulling out chairs and everything, but the way he looks at you – reminds me of how David used to," she says.

_What?_

"What?" I say in surprise, feeling like an idiot, when I feel my cheeks burning up. I'm not supposed to be surprised. He's my boyfriend after all. Mum looks at me in general astonishment.

"Molly,  _what_  are you playing at – you look like you've seen a ghost," she says raising her brows at me. "I'm just –  _no_  – I just, really – he does?" I say.

Oh god. Really now, really, get yourself together Molly Hooper – this is a big charade remember?

"Yes, I suppose it must have been a while for you dear, really, but here is a man who's obviously smitten. Take good care of him," she says putting her hand on mine.

"What are you talking about?" asks Sherlock who soon appears again. I feel like slamming my head on the table repeatedly, as mum utters "You."

It gets quite late by the point we've gone through all the awkward topics, Sherlock makes up unbelievable stories from _his_  childhood. Mum talks of mine, and I sit generally grimacing to the very end when I've got my dessert in front of me. Luckily, we push through, and I soon find myself in a affectionate embrace with my mum, who gives the same to Sherlock who just grins at her, before we wander off in the opposite direction.

"That was quite the interrogation," he says drily, the usual serious expression back again.

"Good thing you did some research," I said, as we sat in a taxi returning to the hotel.

"He never did seem to shut up about his life," says Sherlock. I frown. Cheap shot at my boyfriend, then –  _wonderful_. We end up sitting quietly in the taxi, Sherlock is obviously lost in thought, and I wait to ask the question lingering in my head until we return to our hotel room.

" _So_ ," I start, removing my shoes, and settling down on the bed. "Are you going to tell me about Sebastian Moran?"

"You've probably figured out that he didn't kill himself, then?" he says raising a brow at me.

"Yes, that was fairly obvious. You practically ran when his name got announced," I say snorting.

There must really be some trend going on really. Could people stop offing themselves and then not offing themselves? I was almost expecting David to show up at some point. "He and Moriarty were friends, you could say. He was his leading henchman."

"Alive and breathing – going after you then?" I say leaning back on the pillows.

"Yes, more or less," he says with a sigh removing his dress jacket, before throwing his tie aside, and slipping the glasses off. "I suspect that has always been Moriarty's plan. He knew I'd manage somehow, and then – planned accordingly."

"His last will and testament to the world, then," I say not one bit amused. Two people were already dead – how many others would die?

"Yes," says Sherlock weakly sitting down on the bed, his back to me.

"Did you really see John?" I ask.

"They call him the man who can change his face," says Sherlock not answering my question, while he sits down besides me staring ahead in the bed.

"What?"

" _Moran_  – he was quite insulted of having his father's face apparently."

"He didn't – my dad  _did_  die naturally?" I asked.

"Yes, luckily for your father's sake."

"I suppose he's a very dangerous man?"

"Yes, Molly – he is a _very_  dangerous man. Moriarty never liked getting his hands dirty. Moran on the contrary enjoys it quite much."

"So he killed David then?"

"I am afraid so."

"Can't you just get Mycroft to get him?"

"It would be easy, but apparently – seeing as nobody has ever  _seen_  him – it is a bit more tricky than that. Anyone who has, has turned up dead," says Sherlock with an edge to his voice.

"Nothing is  _ever_ normal around you – everything's an absolute mess.  _My_  mum actually thinks you're my boyfriend, and what is she – she's  _happy_. If she knew who you were she'd be cross, she'd be  _horribly_ angry," I say, laughing a bit, despite myself.

"Why on earth would she be mad?" he asks with knitted brows.

"She  _never_  liked you," I say crossing my arms.

"She _seemed_  to think quite highly of  _me_  tonight," he says raising a brow at me. I snort.

"You  _were_  Martin tonight,  _a better_  Martin than Martin usually is. So yes, she did like you, but that wasn't  _you_ ," I say more heatedly than necessary.

"You've clearly  _mapped_  out the sort of man I am, then? You needn't be worried. No such scenario will  _ever_  happen when we return to London," he says scathingly standing up from the bed - his face unreadable.

"Good! I wouldn't want to make you feel  _uncomfortable_ ," I snap, before storming into the bathroom, door slamming behind me. The tears prickled forwards. Of course, I know  _why_  I'm really upset. I hate myself for being upset, I hate myself for caring, and I know why I am sitting on the bathroom floor. Who am I kidding? I haven't gotten over him, not even close,  _not at all_ , which makes it so _much_  harder. I spend a little time in the bathroom, before finally walking out to the bedroom, but he's not there.

_Fuck._

_  
_


	13. I've got my love to keep me warm

I do the customary - running around the hotel room, before I end up breathing albeit a bit too hysterically. What if someone has nabbed him? Not likely, but he's not answering his phone. If it was going to be the people who were into theatricals (severed heads and drugged-suicides)– it was definitively going to be unsavoury, so it left the final conclusion – he was upset. The fact that I had upset him was odd, and even worse was the fact that he was a git.  _Never_ happen, right? God, I hate him. He can just. I don't care where he goes. Really, I don't. Yet I end up running down to the reception, still in my dress, clutching my heels in my hand, causing the receptionist to look at me with vindictive glee.

"Hi - have you seen Sh-M-my boyfriend anywhere?"

She raises her brows at me, flashes me a toothy grin of complete satisfaction apparently, before saying "I haven't seen him. Must have missed him. You haven't lost him, have you?"

I open my mouth to answer something crossly, but instead I just say, "Oh no, just wondered. If you see him, tell him I went for a walk."

So I slip on my shoes, and walk off out of the hotel and into the chilly night, which was Hull. Brilliant plan. Now Hooper, you've gone and done it. If Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to be found – you of all people especially won't find him. I end up wandering the streets, trying to see if I can spot him, but I don't think he wants to be found. I don't really want to find him either. At least not right now. What are we going to talk about?

Oh yes I know you don't fancy me. I fancy you. Isn't this brilliant? I just realized this. I'd text my other boyfriend right now, but it's almost midnight – and I've got niceness in my bones. You don't text your boyfriend - going to become your ex – while your in Hull technically with  _him_ , or well with a man posing to be him – who you just had a argument with, which sounds completely mental.

I don't even know why he is mad. I know why I am though. He's a massive git anyway. He just disappears off to who knows where – when we are under a very delicate situation already. A highly delicate one, with people dying, and he's run off to God knows where – instead of being mature – and having a reasonable adult-reaction (let's ignore the fact that I hid inside the bathroom, shall we?). He's gone off and left me. I couldn't expect him to wait it out. Maybe he's even taken the car? I check – it's still standing on the spot.

At least he hasn't left, yet, or I don't know. Maybe he has, maybe he took a taxi, and then the train out of here. What do I know? Nothing's ever going to happen between us. I don't even know him properly apparently. What a git! That I know – he's the one who – oh, it's my fault, isn't it? Well, he's the one who suggested he'd be Martin under this trip – he should know that I wouldn't tolerate that entirely – that in the end it would most likely – yes, I've been dancing around this one for ages. I know. I couldn't honestly go away on a mini-break with Sherlock Holmes, and not end up feeling something. I've been feeling it this entire time. Of course when in London, I could shield myself with work, Martin and leaving the flat.

The moment we go from London, we're stuck in a car, he ends up denying everything, and claims my sofa is uncomfortable. We return from a day of said-faux-boyfriend and girlfriend-behaviour to our hotel; I end up lashing out – and he ends up – I don't know what he is really.

Is there?

No, is there?

No, can't be?

Is there?

I'm being ridiculous.

He doesn't.

I do.

I've always done.

I'm never going to get over this idiot, am I?

I thought Martin was doing a good job, but apparently not.

Oh, shit.

I hope I won't be reduced to a pile of crimson and awkward stuttering, dropping things, and looking at him with a swoony expression. I'm definitively not going to ask him for a coffee. No, that's not going to happen. I'm just going to be myself and just accept the fact that I love him. Love him; I don't  _love_ him – do I? I might have some deep-seated emotions for the man, but I don't love him –  _love_ him, do I? Or maybe I always have.

God - how awkward isn't that? How extremely irritating to be in love with someone this –  _this_ – what's the word – arse. OK, I know he cares for me – not in the manner I'd like to – but I am his friend. He trusts me, he's pretended a lot for me, and now he's run off – because I told him that – oh. Oh god. I basically told him – that he's not a good man. Yes, good thing I figured that one out really.

I suppose the wine made me slower, as usual. Oh god – oh god. I am an idiot. Yes, I know. I'm slow. I knew I'd done wrong, but I've just told him that he is nothing like Martin. Well, he's not Martin. Of course he isn't, but that doesn't mean that he's not a good man. He's just not got normal human behaviour down to a tee. He shouldn't care what my opinion is anyway. I'm just Molly Hooper, his pathologist – no, no – that's not what I am – I am Molly Hooper - his friend, and what have I done – told him he's a bad man. Lovely. No wonder he's run off. Just saying that makes him sound like a kid.

I wander for about two hours outside, probably catching a cold, as it's a bit chilly. I end up reluctantly going back to the hotel feeling dejected, seeing the grim still satisfied smile of the receptionist, take the elevator, enter our room, and who do you think lays on the bed with the laptop on his lap, barely glances at me saying in his usual tone "A brisk walk in the moonlight, then?"

I open my mouth to reply, instead of going on the usual lengthy apology, which would naturally come when dealing with any other normal human being, "It was quite refreshing," I say scathingly throwing my shoes off, as my feet are hurting from all the walking - probably not a good day for high heels.

"Yes, Miranda did say you'd gone for a walk. She seemed to be under the impression that you lost me," he says snapping the laptop shut, putting it aside, before sitting upright on the bed studying me.

"Miranda?" I repeat grimacing.

"The receptionist," he says with a quick smile.  _Miranda_ , he was on first-name terms with the receptionist.

"You know her name?" I say annoyed. She'd obviously seen him then, obviously not very information-friendly that one.

"Read it off her name-tag. A very straight-forward deduction," he says looking a bit bored. His eyes are still on me, as I sit down massaging my sore feet. I stop because he's staring. I quirk a brow, and we sit in the impending silent, before he says, "You were looking for me."

"No, I just like going for two hour long walks out in the cold in high heels," I say frowning.

I can see the corners of his mouth turn up, but he still looks serious, before looking at his phone. I perch my lips, before addressing the newfound silence -

"When I said you weren't like Martin, I didn't mean - you're not - like ordinary people - Sherlock," I say.

"You don't need to reassure me of anything, I'm fine," he says looking up from his phone.

"Well, you weren't here, and I need to say it nonetheless. You may be, well, the worst in proper social situations, putting someone down when they give you a present (he opens his mouth at this, but I keep going), or tell someone their boyfriend is gay – you might be well – a git, but you care. Easily displayed by the fact that you spy on John or the fact that you as Martin were willing to put up with my mum talking about her gardening – so don't get me wrong. You're not Martin, and it's a good thing –because you are a good man," I say almost without of breath. He looks at me quietly for a moment; I don't know whether or not he's stunned, or just privately thinking I'm an idiot.

He clears his throat, before saying, "Thank you, and I am sorry too."

"Sorry for what?" I say furrowing my brows, "It's not like you're ever going to be my boyfriend, right – quite the obvious deduction there."

_Wow, I blame that one on the wine._ Yes, good, you thought that one really through didn't you? He just looks at me, a puzzling expression on his face, before he says, "Yes, well we better go to bed. I hope you can stand my company. I'd rather not take the floor."

"No problem," I say hurriedly, "We'll be just like brother and sister," I add laughing nervously.

Wait, did I just honestly say that?  _Yes, evidently_  – I see his eyebrows shoot into his hair, as he stands up from the bed. Don't talk, just don't talk – just don't.

"I do hope that most brothers and sisters don't pretend to be lovers when off on a holiday," he says smirking, before walking off to the bathroom. "The sharing of the bed would be highly dubious in that case," he says from inside the bathroom. I can just see his amused expression, as I turn a worse shade of red.

God. Yes, well, it can't become any worse – can it?

There is a knock. I blanch. Yes, well apparently my question has been answered. Sherlock exits the bathroom quite hurriedly, looks at me, before saying "Did you order anything?"

"No," I say. He furrows his brows, opens the door, and we find a waiter standing there –

"Room service! Mr and Miss - it's what you ordered," the blonde man says with a smile, putting a tray on a table, before walking off.

The door is shut behind him, and we stare at the tray. The large plate is covered up, of course.

"Not another head?" I say rather quietly.

Sherlock walks towards the table, removes the top, and reveals a pile of blood – hair – I can't really see what it is, as he's shielding it, but he hurriedly snags a bloodied piece of parchment out from what it was.

"The waiter wasn't involved at least. Working here for years by the state of his clothes," says Sherlock with a frown before reading out loud from the parchment " _Cats out of the bag._ " I stare for a moment at the plate, before looking at Sherlock's face, which has a severe expression.

"That isn't?" I say in the smallest of tones.

"It isn't," says Sherlock, "Used another cat, apparently. Unfortunate for this cat - lucky for our Toby."

"How could you tell?"

"The colour of the fur," he says with a deep sigh. "I think it is best we send this one back, don't you?" he says before ringing up room service. He talks briefly, before hanging up. He looks at me for a moment saying, "I'll have to talk to Mycroft."

"I thought you couldn't meet," I say standing awkwardly, glancing at the plate on the table.

"Under the circumstances we'll have to. I will most likely have to be alive very soon," he says looking rather thoughtful, still looking at me. "I am very sorry for having to put you through this."

I look at him oddly, so  _that's_  what he was apologizing for, then. Oh, of course, it makes more sense in a way.

"I'll be OK," I say laughing a little bit.

"Yes, well let us hope that really was the last of it. Deeming from their message, it most likely is," he says putting the note on the nightstand, and moving closer to my general direction.

"What will happen now, then?" I ask.

"They will most likely try to kill me," he says, and I feel just a wee bit sick if anything. "Luckily I am quite used to impending death threats," he adds smiling.

I roll my eyes at him, "Well, as long as you sort this out – and don't end up –  _dead_."

"I did manage to survive last time," he says.

"Yes, with my help. So if you need any this time –,"

"You're already helping me Molly," he says staring at me curiously, too much for my liking, edging closer by the second. I look at him inquiringly in return, furrowing my brows.

"Well, there's always something you need, you know," I say uncertainly.

"Yes, I did need something last time," he says, eyeing me. Now, the reasonable personal space is gone, and he is standing right in front of me, looking down on my face.

"I am here to help," I say raising my brows at him, while biting my lip. "But we should go to bed, don't you think? – Put the plate on the outside of the room, so they can – err – fetch the cat. I hope that man doesn't get fired," I say rather chattily, at which I end up trying to move away, but he holds on my arm – just as firm and gentle as he did when chained to my bed.

I turn facing him; he looks at me intently, opens his mouth - closes it again, before rather slowly letting go of my arm, as his phone suddenly rings, "Thank you Molly Hooper," he says, stepping away, taking the phone, and walking inside the bathroom – slamming the door behind him. Right, yes, well, now –  _ok._


	14. My funny valentine

My heart is pounding, breath rapid – you could say every single bodily function increases; I could feel the hair on my arms raise, as I stared on the bathroom door. I could hear the muffled talking on the phone - he sounded worried. Oh, we were in trouble. I sat down on the bed, still in my blue dress, and wondered idly what was going on. Was anything going on? He just thanked me, you know. Oh God. I end up slipping off the dress, changing my clothes into a nightgown, which I did not remember packing. I stared at it, holding it onto a finger; I don't even remember it really. My hand reaches automatically to the necklace around my neck.

_He hadn't?_

No, or?

Well, it was an odd form of thank you – that was for sure. I didn't know of anyone who'd get someone a nightgown. It didn't strike me as something he'd do for John Watson, however amusing the imagery is. John Watson didn't strike me as the man who enjoyed silk nightgowns really. He's still in the bathroom though. I was almost worried he'd be running out of it, while I changed - or not as worried about that really. Oh god. He's not going to stride out of the bathroom, door slammed aside, as he pushes me down on the bed – and _and_ – you know I'm not even going to finish that thought. Let it go, those delicious hormones, you know. Probably PMT (I understand why the "t" stands for tension) on it's way, or something. Yes, that sort of thing. I take a deep breath, before I slip under the covers, in the new soft nightgown, while trying to avoid fiddling with the necklace hanging around my neck dipping into the – the door opens, I stare, he stares, but what do you think he says? What do you think he says? Come on - give a guess.

"I suggest you brush your teeth. Dental hygiene - Doctor Hooper – we mustn't forget," he says scathingly, causing me to gape at him a little bit, before shuffling off to the bathroom almost slamming the door behind me. The idea of Sherlock Holmes brushing his teeth is almost foreign to me. I'd almost just like to assume that he gets John Watson to assist him in such cases, but then again I never thought I'd see him eat. It's amazing to see him eat, playing as someone else – the plate always ends up being emptied for once, instead of nibbled on, before he starts nicking my toast. What am I talking about? Just brush your teeth. I stand in front of the mirror, not really thinking about the time, before I find the door being knocked on.

I open, and there he stands quirking a brow at me "A half hour to brush your teeth?" he inquires leaning on the doorframe.

I take the brush out of my mouth, before saying rather irritated "You said dental hygiene was important. You were in here an hour."

He looks at me in disbelief, before shutting the door again. It's not like he's waiting for me is it? I can brush my teeth entirely in my own time, can't I? No pressure, time-wise in the teeth brushing area. I end up finishing quite hurriedly, washing my face, before walking out. He is stretched out on the bed, with the laptop again, but he sets it aside as I show up.

"We'll get up nine o'clock tomorrow. Mycroft has sorted it out so you don't have a day of work. I suggest you be careful," he says, furrows in his brows.

"Do I need to stay in the flat all day? I thought of seeing Martin," I said. He'd been texting me the entire evening, and I hadn't really properly answered. I didn't want to write the almost obligatory  _"We need to talk."_  I've never really broken it off with someone before. It was easier breaking it off with Jim, because he sort of made the whole thing –  _breakable_. Martin wasn't entirely in that department of a psychotic madman.

"That isn't an issue," says Sherlock who looks like it is an issue. I perch my lips a bit, before hiding under the covers besides him. We sit in complete silence, I glance at him, and he just looks pensive. I have no idea what he is thinking about, feels all frightfully familiar.

"So – goodnight then," I say gingerly, before turning my back to him lying in the bed.

"Goodnight," he almost whispers, still in an upright sitting position.

I just sigh deeply, trying to shut my eyes, and end up falling asleep despite myself.

The morning that came he woke me up, and I found myself in his spot for some odd reason. I ended up getting ready, and we left after breakfast, before driving off in complete utter silence. I could hear my own breathing; he was apparently very busy thinking about something, and I was busy thinking about what he could be thinking about, besides being all-too fixated on the fact that I was actually going to break it off with Martin – ginger Martin with the dimples and smiles. It's all really up in the air right now. I still want Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes is – well – fixated on a mystery, as usual. We just needed him to return from being dead, and everything would go back to being normal. I'd be his pathologist, he'd be the detective, and that was it. Or –  _or_ – I could – no, just don't.

We arrive in London, I avoid general conversation, and we just get back into the flat, dropping luggage, I go and fetch Toby, who seems pleased to be with me – my old neighbour is luckily in tact and so is the cat. I fondle him, before letting him run rampantly around the flat apparently glad to be out of the old woman's flat with all the pink (not that my flat is less pink, but you know – I avoid frills). Sherlock is sitting on the sofa looking deep in thought, fingers steepled under his chin, as he barely looks at me. Toby runs towards him, but he ignores him. I just end up making tea, just to have something to do.

I've been answering the text messages from Martin. We're going to have dinner at his place. I tried to dissuade him from it, but then I mentally thought that possibly a not-public scene was a better idea. Sitting in a coffee shop with him telling him it was off wasn't entirely my cup of tea. I could just picture his face, was he a crier? I don't entirely know yet, I can only imagine, god. I couldn't invite him here either, as Sherlock was still Benedict, who'd soon return to the public eye – and who'd soon be – well, you know –  _Sherlock Holmes._ He doesn't know it yet, of course, but it was better than making it a bit more obvious. Yes, I'll just let my gay ex sit here in my flat, while I break it off with you – shan't I?

"He can come here, I'll be leaving the flat," says Sherlock who sits with the laptop typing as usual.

I look at him in surprise, two cups in my hand, and slowly hand him one "No, he's – err – making me dinner, and I think – well I think – a more familiar scenario would be good for him –then him coming here – to make food in my flat," I say drinking from my cup uneasily.

Sherlock looks at me puzzled, shutting the laptop screen.

"Are you sure that is a good idea?" he says, hands clasped, peering at me curiously.

"Err – wait –  _what_?" I say blanching. He looks albeit a bit amused by my reaction, but he looks soon austere.

"I do hope you are not breaking it off, because of our present situation," he says raising his brows at me.

I frown in return, " _What_  situation exactly?" Is he referring to us? Is he? Oh God, he's basically saying I'm mental. God.

"Of all people I think Martin least likely to be a target," he says.

Oh,  _oh_ , right. He's being considerate – of Martin's feelings. I still end up standing there, feeling like a complete idiot, because he's caught me entirely off guard as usual. "Yes, well – err – it wasn't why I was going to break it off. Hang on, how did you know?"

Sherlock just furrows his brows, "OK, fine – don't answer that, but – yes, well I am breaking it off. Problem?"

"No," he says giving a brief nod, before devoting more time to his precious laptop. I do hope he'll inform me of what he's doing there really – when it's all done, I suppose.

"Yes, well, I'll just go take a shower –  _so_  – right," I say, before walking off rather flushed into my bedroom. He'd figured out by just looking at me that I was breaking it off with Martin. I sort of hoped Martin would deduce himself too, so I just needed to show up, before he'd go "I understand," and I'd feel better, texts aside.

I shower, get dressed – not particularly well  _mind you_  – I didn't want to actually look good. You don't end things with someone and look good. I didn't feel like dressing up either way. The flat was empty when I got out of my bedroom; he'd obviously left, to God knows where, and so I went over to Martin's dreading our break-up. It's never good, you know, I'm not really used to crushing someone else's heart. Well, I'm glad I'm not used to it. I've never been one for that sort of thing anyway. So, there I stood breathing deeply in front of Martin's door, I was lucky that it was in fact open downstairs, so I didn't have to hear his happy voice through the buzzer.

Oh god, this was definitively not going to be a joyous occasion. I could just see him feeding me pasta, and then I'm blurting out that I'm in love with someone. OK _, not_  love. Oh, good Hooper – pull yourself together. I knock, he opens the door, cracking a smile, and looking horribly well dressed in a suit.

Oh god.

"Is it a bad time?" I automatically say jarred by his attire.

"No, perfect," he just says giving me a quick peck, before pulling me into the room, which has been filled with candles. There's a table, and there's a perfectly good cooked meal placed beautifully on plates. Maybe I should have texted – we need to talk -  _before_  I came over. Oh god. Oh god.

"Sit down," he says pulling the chair out for me beaming happily, pouring some wine in a glass, which I hurriedly grasp chugging down most of the wine in a go. "A bit enthusiastic, then? Hard time with work?"

"Err – yes – work, Martin – I," I start, as he sits down looking at me cheerfully with his ginger hair and smile. Yes, do get rid of the fine man who fancies you.

"Did you have a good time?" he asks looking genuinely content to see me.

"Yes," I say agitated fidgeting there I sit, avoiding to touch the cutlery, and just leaning my elbows on the table awkwardly glancing at the hot meal in front of me.

He reaches for my hand, stroking my thumb, and looks at me pleasantly with his slightly freckled face.

"That's good. At least it wasn't an entire waste, you know. How's Ben?" he says. God, Benedict. I'd almost forgot. He still cares and asks. Oh Martin.

"He's brilliant, you know," I say rather red-faced, feeling the weight of it all push me further down.

"Let's hope that lover of his sorts his priorities straight. Wouldn't want him to be tied up," he says chuckling.

"Of course not," I say, not really sure what I'm answering or saying.

"You sure you're fine?" he says, his expression serious, as his brows connect. I feel like running out of the flat, right now, good plan, brilliant plan, but – no. I can't leave. I feel like my whole body stiffens, and I sit there tense.

"Martin, this isn't working out," I say rather breathlessly, and I almost shut my eyes waiting for the devastated reply.

"That's really not what I expected," he says gaping slightly at me for a moment. Obviously chewing on this bit of information. "But I'm not really surprised."

"Sorry?" I say.

"I suppose this has something to with Sherlock Holmes?"

I swallow at this, rather uneasily.

He cracks a smile.

"I'm not an idiot, you know," he says jabbing his fork in the steak on the plate rather forcefully, "Of course he is Sherlock Holmes."

Oh God. He knew? Jesus.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew?" I say aghast.

He perches his lips, dropping the fork, about to drink the wine that was already in his glass – quirking a brow at it, before putting the glass down on the table again.

"Maybe not a good idea to drink that – right now. That would create such a setback," he says sighing, "Well, obviously I knew – just like Sherlock Holmes knows who I am."

I stare at him for a minute.

"I'm not following," I say feeling a bit sluggish all of a sudden.

"I had hoped he was a bit more creative. He gives you a tracking device, as a necklace –  _very dull_ ," he says eyeing the necklace around my throat. "Jim was always into his theatricals. I was more or less a bit more above that myself, but all for the good man's memory."

"What? Wait, what a-," but he places a finger on my lips, silencing me.

"Must I say it? I had hoped you were a bit more clever," he says grinning, laughing – not the sweet laugh I was so used to. This was not Martin Ames. He removes his finger from my lips, freeing me to speak.

"You're Sebastian Moran," I say hesitantly.

He raises his brows at me, picks up a napkin, dabs at his mouth, before throwing it on his plate.

"At least I hadn't underestimated you entirely," he says snatching the necklace from my neck, and I cannot stop him – I cannot move. My eyes flicker, from open to shut.

"What have you given me?" I ask, in almost a whisper.

"Your boyfriend David enjoyed it," he says clasping the necklace in his hand, looking at it smugly. He looks at me coldly. "I was very worried your mother might have tipped you off, but you didn't really think of it –  _oh she's just out and about so busy, you know_ – Really now, and  _that show_  for my benefit – the handcuffs. Oh, Sherlock was very against being put up to do something like that. All to fool his friend and when he said John was in Hull. Oh no, that was me – he did hold you quite tightly there. Are you caught up now? Possibly a bit better, at least."

I try to gasp for air, but I get nothing. I can't breathe. He looks at me wide-eyed in amusement, as I end up falling forwards gasping for air onto the table, but he soon pushes me forcefully back in my chair. I blink at his bored expression, which is the most I can do at this point. I can't move an inch – "I can't-," I start hoarsely, taking small laboured breaths, as my heart thumps rather erratically. I feel the blood rushing through me, light-headed, and weak.

"Minor side-effect. I'd try not to talk or scream, whichever you prefer. One of them will give you a quicker death though. I don't know which one appeals to you more. I do like quick and easy. Jim was always one for the pro-longed one. He used to call me an artist. Ironic, you know, being an artist for your behalf," he says amused.

I gape at him, blinking furiously, until all I see is darkness.


	15. Mack the knife

I open my eyes, they sting – there's a bright light hitting me in the face. My eyes luckily adjust themselves after some furious blinking. I still couldn't move, except my head, which meant that the drugs were slowly disappearing from my blood. I looked around trying to understand where I was. I was strapped onto a medical table it seemed, bound at my wrists and ankles. A single sheet covering my body, my nipples visible from under the cover, as it was a cold room. A white room, which looked like one used for operations. I wasn't in Bart's obviously, for there were no signs – just a single door – the only exit out of here.

"Hello," I say croakily, of course to no avail. He's taken me somewhere. I have no idea where though. There's a steel table just to my right; on it several medical instruments are placed. Some objects used for cutting the skin, more or less – the tools of a surgeon.

_Oh god._

I obviously have horrible taste in men.

I laugh, or cough more or less. I couldn't seriously be thinking this right now, but I am. I didn't know what was worse, being killed by a man who'd use the same instruments I use to dissect corpses or the fact that I was going to be tortured by an ex.  _Both_  were quite horrendous. I'd rather be dead by that time, but considering it – he'd most likely want me to be alive during.

God.

Would Sherlock find me? He had to have known. No wonder he seemed worried. No wonder he barely looked my way. No wonder he barely spoke. He was thinking of a way out of this. I suppose I shouldn't have tried to break up with Martin.

He'd clearly planned this anyway, as the wine obviously was drugged. I don't think if I'd decided to still be together with him – it would have changed him into turning me into a possible  _dissecting toy_. The question remained – how long had Sherlock known? Had he figured it out late, or had he known during my entire relationship with Martin –  _no_  - Sebastian.

The fact that he didn't tell me must have meant that he was under some heavy pressure. Either that he knew that Sebastian was after me, but he didn't know that Martin was Sebastian. He had to know though. He'd not be fooled the same twice, but why didn't he tell me?

_Oh god._

Would I ever find out though? I was now at the mercy of a madman. A man who'd successfully killed a trained spy, Irene Adler and David. The same man who'd also faked his own death as a young boy. He was obviously very similar to Jim in all aspects.

I think the appropriate word is –  _fuck._

I'm not afraid of dying, I'm just not so keen on the method presented to me here – bound naked under a white sheet with cutting devices beyond my reach.

I hitch my breath automatically, as the door creaks open, closing with a snap. Sebastian Moran walks towards me in all his  _blonde glory_. He was of course not a real ginger. The fact that he'd taken time to wash out the colour, meant that I had been here for some time. He's wearing a black shirt, which I recognise -

"It's not entirely my size, rather snug, but I thought it fitting," he says with a smirk.

"You – you – you-," I started, not entirely strong in my voice yet, neither did I know the appropriate word.

"There are many words to describe me - I'm sure. I'd save my breath for later really," he says standing right next to me. "I'd love to go on a long rant about –  _why_ – but that's frightfully tedious in my opinion. It's just a pity that I saw you nude under less than agreeable circumstances. Not that it wasn't _pleasant_ ," he says caressing my cheek, as I try to pull away. "There's some fight in you, then. A pity."

He seats himself on a stool apparently right besides me, slipping on a pair of operation gloves from the table with the medical knives.

"Even if you kill me - he will find you," I say through gritted teeth using what little strength I've got. I feel tired the minute the sentence leaves me.

"I am expecting that. I didn't do this entirely on a whim you know. I'm just following orders," he says rather attentively, brows furrowed, looking if not rather bored.

I just stare at him, unable to really give any comment, because it didn't really surprise me. Moriarty did really enjoy playing beyond the grave.

"He's dead of course, if you're wondering, but I do like to keep my promises even beyond the after-life," he says with a smile, gloves entirely slipped on now, as he grabs a scalpel inspecting it, before looking in the direction of my legs.

Tears slipped from my eyes, despite myself, as my breathing grew rather shallow. I feel rather tired; I have to admit – already spent before he's even got a chance to tear me up.

"Why did Jim want you to date me?" I say rather breathlessly.

He slowly turns away from looking in the direction of my legs, his hand lazily on the sheet – just above my stomach.

"Distracting me? Are you? Hauling out the time? I assure you that no one will save you," he says with a quick grin, as if he's reprimanding a child.

"You can answer my question," I say, my voice breaking a little.

He just smiles at me, quirking a brow, before returning his eyes to inspecting my legs.

"Tell me  _Martin_ ," I say with my teeth on edge. There are hot tears still prickling out of the corner of my eyes. He reacts at being called this, bites his lip, as his attention is fixed on me again. I bite back a sigh of relief.

"Jim knew that your darling detective would most likely ask  _you_  – his pathologist for help – if Sherlock were to try to save himself," Sebastian spat, rather vehemently. "He had clearly expected something from your corner. I disagreed with him. I was obviously wrong."

"You're still wrong," I say frowning at him.

He looks at me expectantly, scalpel still held up high, so I'd not forget that he is the one with the power.

"I'm  _not_ his pathologist. I'm his friend," I say feeling rather stupid, but I've got to drag out the time.

He snorts leaning closer, breathing down on my face. "That's really brilliant coming from you."

"You're a carbon-copy of Jim, then," I say with a sneer. He looks at me in astonishment, whether sincere or not - I do not know, but he pulls his face away from mine.

"Thank you, but do you think such compliments will let me – let you go –  _or_ insults? They'll just add more flame to the fire, love. Do you think you can intimidate me Molly?" he retorts.

"What more then?" I ask, for it's evident he's distracted at least.

"More information, I thought we were done?" I glare at him.

"Obviously not. Well, then – hmmm – let me see. Yes, at first I thought Sherlock was dead. Quite the magic trick, I must say. You've got to tell me how you pulled that one. I'd gotten orders to hang around in your bedroom, until it was either proven he wouldn't show up or he would –  _he did_  – spectacularly so. Even using this shirt," he says pulling on the black shirt, which I wish I could rip off his front. "Now I need to kill you, to get him, or well – not  _really_  kill you – as much as torture you. I could easily go and put a bullet in his head, but so uninteresting. I've been leaving all these wonderful  _presents_  all around. Jim's orders, you know. I've never been one for presents."

"Why didn't you kill Toby?" I asked curious – at this he chuckled.

"Yes, I did contemplate that, but I was rather fond of that bloody cat. I've never been one to kill the innocent."

"You killed another cat though."

"The bitch was running about loose," he says grinning.

I widen my eyes at him, about to open my mouth to speak, when he puts his gloved finger on my lips, "Oh, you haven't been entirely innocent, have you? You've been a regular slut waltzing around between your darling Martin and the detective - being  _both_  Benedict and Martin. Sherlock Holmes is quite the actor, playing to the very end. I almost believed him, as did you – your wide-brown eyes – when I said –  _oh, he looks so happy when you're here._ You really are something."

I give up trying to speak, his finger still on my lips.

"You're probably not as alarmed as you should be. I'm not bothered – that will change. You've not even looked properly on yourself yet," he says, touching the sheet covering my legs with some force, as if he's looking for something.

I gape when he brings forth the glove he touched my legs with. It's covered in blood. "I did it while you were sleeping, you won't feel a thing –  _yet_." I gasp despite myself, blinking furiously at the blood seeping through the white sheet, "These drugs are a good thing - won't you say? People could cut themselves up and wouldn't feel a thing. No pain, just blood."

"You don't strike me as precise," I say panting, staring at his hand that shakes a little bit from holding the scalpel.

"Yes, you should be doing this yourself. By all means - but you are rather tied up at the moment," he says entertained.

"You're not a doctor, then?" I ask.

"No, I just like sterile rooms. Don't you?" he grins, "No, I'm no John Watson, but I have seen war. I've certainly killed my fair share of people," he says looking as if this was particular happy thought.

I remembered.

"You got the face of your father," I say, and the happy expression on his face dies off. He looks particular haunted now, eyeing me, as if he could slice me up right there – and I wouldn't feel a thing.

"Your father wasn't a particularly good surgeon," he says scathingly.

"Or maybe you just hadn't noticed yet," I say.

If there was one thing I could do, it was this. Words were the only weapons at my disposal. Everything else was failing me, and I was glad, for the sheet became a deeper and deeper shade of red. The heavy sensation in my body started to come back to me. Pain slowly creeping up my legs - blood sliding onto the table I was lying on.

"I know that face. It's burned in my retina. The same bloody face I've got to see every time I look in the mirror," he spits.

"Is that why you didn't have any mirrors in your flat?" I ask attentively while ignoring the shooting pain in my leg. I bite hard down onto my lips, so I can taste the blood in my mouth. Focus on what he's saying. Focus.  _Breathe._

"Observant, then? You're not so oblivious," he says winking at me, as if this is a fun conversation. "You are very cute when you're all cross and bloodied up – has anyone ever told you that?" he asks snorting.

He leans closely to my ear whispering "I regret not having you, lying on the bed – I could have had my way with you, and sliced your throat, but Jim never did like it quickly." I shiver, turning probably paler by the second, but I don't cry. I try not to cry and instead I stare in the bright light. "Neither did you – a thing you had in common," he adds chuckling.

"I never had any mutual interests with him," I say blankly. This really is it, well; at least I'll go with a bang. "He took the easy way out, killing himself."

This obviously does not sit with him, I could apparently insult him to bits, and touch on his childhood, but Moriarty was another subject. He is examining my face, scalpel edging closer to me – "I could pop out one of those pretty eyes of yours."

"You said you wouldn't be talking, but that's the only thing I've heard during this. Jim would have shot himself by now," I say.

He laughs, before he takes the scalpel and rams it into my hip. I gasp - feeling it wrenching itself underneath my skin, pulling, and tearing, before he pulls it out with a flourish.

"I've been contemplating skinning you. Jim was particularly fond of that," he says looking pleased at the blood coming out from the gash on the sheet.

The pain is excruciating, my legs feel like they are on fire, and I feel some stabbing pains in my hip. I cannot quite comprehend the amount of pain I am going through.

"I'm sure you'd feel it by now - at least the sensation of me peeling off the freckles on your skin. I'd start at your navel-," he says, and I can feel the scalpel on my stomach now, which he bares, removing the clinging bloody sheet. I am wounded and naked under his gaze.

"Red suits you," he drawls, as his gloved hand slides on my body staining it with even more blood.

I flinch under his touch, tears I didn't know I had come forward.

"I want you to beg," he says with that drawl of his. His hands caressing my stomach, as I involuntarily wince under his touch.

"All I've done to you are small things, compared to what I can do. I might not be a doctor, but I know where things are. You are fully aware of this, I am sure – now that you can feel where I've hurt you."

The blade is on my lower abdomen, I take an intake of breath, as he's obviously on the way to cut – I would never beg.


	16. Someone to watch over me

Sebastian Moran's face looms over me with a devilish grin on his features – this was Martin Ames. Martin Ames the painter, who I snogged with on several occasions. Martin who was at first a bumbling fool, but obviously it was a charade he felt wasn't needed. He was now holding a scalpel threateningly close to my skin, but not close enough to break. He obviously wanted to assert himself, to show me he'd already won, and I'd already lost. Here I was defenceless, tied up; bleeding and naked in front of a man – the same man I'd wished to be naked to before.

I was left here – wherever here was, getting aches in my body, from the cuts he'd already made. I couldn't stop him, I didn't have any hidden weapons, and I was utterly alone. The only one I had was myself and I had one thing – my voice. I might be at the moment helpless, but not entirely so.

"Was everything fake, then?" I say weakly, blinking up at him, trying to ignore the sensation in my side, and on my legs. He pulls the scalpel back; he's clearly enjoying tormenting me – teasing me, pretending he might let me go if I give him a convincing speech.

"Oh, is this the point where you tell me you had feelings for Martin – friendly Martin who tried to put some drugs in your orange juice? Sherlock was quick on the uptake on that one. Removing said drugs with a hurry – quite worried I'd say," he says laughing rather coldly. "I had cameras put up in your flat – it was quite the show I must say," he says eyeing my body simultaneously, before fixing his eyes on my face.

"Your boyfriend wasn't really happy about that. He did make up some fun stories, I really enjoyed it when you showed up at my flat, and he was throwing daggers at me before you came."

"So he wanted to tell me?"

"You were worried he didn't want to share?" he says smirking wagging his brows at me. I feel a bit tired, shutting my eyes for a moment, but he grabs hold off my cheeks pressing my lips together tightly – putting the scalpel close to my face. "You better not fall asleep love – you'd be in trouble then. You've lost quite a lot of blood; I might have to patch you up, before I can continue. I can't have you dying on me already."

"I'm not," I say the moment he drops my face, yet I can barely keep myself awake. "You're not a doctor anyway."

"I've got a bit of a medical kit here, and some more medicine for you. I'll make sure you won't feel a thing," he says in a rather soothing voice.

"I'd rather be dead," I whisper.

"We can't have that, or else our time will be short," he says with a grin, before rummaging under the table I'm on. He brings fort an emergency kit. "I should take the one I just made on your hip, I suppose. Seems to be bleeding more from there, or perhaps your legs-," he says rather cheerily.

"Please-," I murmur faintly.

"Begging already are we?" he quips.

"No,  _don't_  fucking sew me up," I snap.

He raises his brows at me "Language Molly. We can't have you speaking like that. I've got to anyway, or we won't have more than about fifteen minutes of this. I can't take you to a proper doctor, can I?" Shutting my eyes, I soon feel the needle tearing through the skin on my hip. I groan, moving more on the spot now. My body is finally properly waking up, but I'm still bound down.

"Fuck you," I swear at him, tears rolling down my face, as he just sighs at my language, pulling at my skin with the thread and needle.

"Well, you did want to fuck me love, but that wonderful detective kept you away from that," he says keeping on sewing, which I felt was uneven, and brought probably more damage than any good.

Soon enough he brings forth a bottle of some liquid, which he pours on my legs causing them to sting. I flinch at this, but awaken more or less.

"All better – any more questions then? We don't have the entire night on our hands. I'll get bored at some point," he says yawning a bit at me theatrically, before picking up the scalpel yet again. "These gloves are severely impractical, but I love the shade of red."

"You're sick," I snarl at him, and he's close to my face.

"That's the worst thing you can come up at the moment? You should stick to the swearing words to be honest. I can't have fun cutting you up, if you're going to be this dull," he snaps slapping me on my legs, causing me to recoil.

"I'm just waiting for someone to come and kill you," I say laughing drily. They probably weren't going to show up at this rate, but I liked the small flicker of fear that crossed his eyes even though.

"I've been informed that I am an impossible target," he says smugly eyeing my lips. He's not going to try to kiss me is he? God.

"Improbable. No one is impossible to kill. Maybe Sherlock Holmes, but you are no Sherlock Holmes," I say rather heatedly, trying not to think of the searing pain already inflicted on me.

I expect him to stab me yet again, but he seemed almost intent on harming me more psychologically than just physically. He did want me to beg, to beg for my freedom, but I would never give that to him.

"I promise you that I will be the one who ends him," he says ever so seriously, inches away from my lips. I try to turn my face away, but he holds me in place. Eyes peering at me, as he smiles that wicked grin of his - a grin resembling that of Moriarty himself. Here the devil was staring me soullessly in the face.

"He'll end you first," I say narrowing my eyes at him, but his lips regretfully land on mine, but it is then the lights go off.

He pulls back startled; I can hear that he's managed to drop his scalpel. I grin to myself. That is timing, that is just fucking timing.

"What?" I hear him mutter, a sound of steel clanging, as he's obviously gripped after a large knife. I hear his footsteps edge towards the door, from the outside I can hear someone panting and running. Could it be? The running stops just outside the door, there's some light, which is visible underneath the crack. I stare, as the person on the other side is bearing a flashlight.

"He's got a knife-," I shout rather half-heartedly, feeling weak, as blood still keeps leaving me - dripping from my side and legs.

I hear a thud outside of the door, and I see the flashlight has been haphazardly dropped on the floor guiding a stream of light into the room. Whoever is on the other side is obviously plotting, but so is Moran whose footsteps go further into the darkness of the room shielding himself with my body. I try to yell, but Moran expects this and clamps his hand on my mouth. I can't properly fight him off either, so I just have to wait.

The door opens, I hear the footsteps, and soon see the shape of man by the little light shone into the room. Moran waits patiently it seems, but the man hurriedly picks up the flashlight flinging it onto Moran who I hear drops the knife with a clatter.

Soon I hear two men fighting, with their fists – a rough brawl on the floor – a little light on them. I stare in surprise, gaping at the man engaged in a fight – " _John_ ," I yell in surprise.

He doesn't seem to take notice of me, continuing to struggle with Moran – both men crushing with a loud bang onto the wall, fists on skin, as I end up lying squirming on my back.

I suddenly hear the sound of someone else running in the hallway, I turn into the direction of the hallway gaping slightly, but I'm distracted when I hear the two men have stopped fighting – a thud is heard. One man has fallen, which one? I see the light hitting the shape of a man lying on the floor.

_Who is it?_

The flashlight gets picked up lightly by another shape, who lights his face, and it is Moran who smiles at me in elation holding a big blade in his other hand – blood dripping from it. I feel all of a sudden weak, blinking back tears, as I hope that John Watson gets up. Moran does not seem in a rush, as he puts the flashlight daintily on my stomach.

"I think I'll just have to end this," he says with a quick grin holding up the knife, which he's about to plunge into me.

I feel the strength already leaving me before he's made the plunge – his delight is undeniable – and he'll by my last kiss. I just hope that Sherlock survives the man. I just hope he won't see me like this. It's then, when the blade is about to dig into my skin – a gunshot is heard amidst the darkness. Moran falls onto the floor, a smile plastered on his face, as he falls perfectly backwards in a sick thump.

Light hits me in the eyes; I blink furiously, trying to understand. Someone else stands by the door. Obviously the shooter with a flashlight in his hand – the sound of the running has a source.

John groans from the other part of the room. I laugh a little, as tears come out of my eyes, before the gun-bearing man strides forwards half-shouting rather fervently "You OK?"

"He's alive," I say with a rather hoarse voice, feeling awfully frail – the lights go on again – John Watson stands up clutching his bleeding waist, groaning, catching sight of me and becoming quite pale.

I find two pair of hands cradling my face, "I was talking about  _you_ ," says Sherlock Holmes looking at my face in earnest, gazing at the injuries I've got. I smile at him, but soon enough everything fades into black.


	17. A foggy day

I wake up gasping, soaked in my own sweat, while clutching to some clean sheets. What had happened? Where was I? Wait.

_Oh God, I'm alive._

Well, yes – from the sensation that crept around my limbs – alive, but with marks obviously. I frowned, taking deep breaths, clutching my chest, and feeling a sense of elation, besides a sense of dread. I almost died at the hands of a madman, and I was now blinking back into existence in a clean hospital room. There was clearly an on-going discussion, coming from the shadows beyond the curtains pulled. I leaned back on my pillow, listening intently, though it wasn't much needed, as the voices were quite loud.

"I was aiming for his shoulder," said the familiar drawl sounding rather bored. I blinked, testing slowly my rather sore limbs, which felt heavily bandaged.

"You shot him in the head," says the voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade. I tried craning my neck to see where the voices came from, as the three men stood by the room's door. It was bright in the room, which was probably why the curtains were pulled, but nobody seemed to consider that I was overhearing this.

"It was dark," says the rather annoyed voice of Sherlock Holmes. They were obviously talking about the probably – deceased Martin Ames, or  _well_ the dead Sebastian Moran.

"Sherlock, you honestly want me to believe that you aimed for his shoulder?" says Lestrade clearly indignant.

"At this point Lestrade you will have to take my word as gospel," Sherlock says sounding rather darkly.

"I didn't see anything Greg – it  _was_  very dark," pipes the voice of John Watson, who most likely wasn't as injured as I was – feeling tied to the bed, without my ropes.

"Didn't you both have flashlights?" asks Lestrade.

I grin despite myself.

"Yes, but considering the heat of the moment when the man was bearing down on Doctor Hooper with a blade – I wasn't really considering the aim of my flashlight," says Sherlock rather angrily. A really lucky shot more or less.

"Fine, we'll talk about this later, but I'll have to speak with Molly -  _Sherlock_ ," says Lestrade exasperated, "But I really do hope you keep the hair," and with that I hear the door slam shut. I just hear Sherlock snort, and he's obviously not amused.

"I honestly can't believe you walked around with ginger hair, and no one recognised you," says the rather amused voice of John. I almost laugh, except I really can't, as my throat is utterly dried up. I suddenly hear the sound of water being poured into a glass, before finding Sherlock opening the curtains handing me the glass.

"You're awake then," he says ignoring John who stands behind him looking curiously at the scene. I take a big gulp of the water, as he looks perturbed into the direction of John.

"Yes," I say after emptying the glass of water, which Sherlock fills with more water, before handing it to me wordlessly again. I just blink at him stupidly, as I catch John eyeing this action clearly entertained.

"John will fill you up, then. I'll have to speak with them myself. Your mother is on her way, I'd rather not be here when she shows up – there might be some confusion," he says, all without looking me in the eye.

I furrow my brows in bewilderment.

"Yes, well - do get better," Sherlock just says, before I get the chance to say anything, and he disappears out of the room entirely. I stare as the door slams shut behind him, and John looks if not a bit sheepishly at the door.

John's holding a cup of coffee, and has bandages around the midriff. His face is a bit bruised up, but he doesn't look seriously injured. "How are you feeling?" he asks me beaming holding a cup of coffee.

I don't really know what to say. What does one say?

I give a sigh, "I – I could be better," I reply with a rather croaky voice, and he seems to regret immediately having me speak.

"We would have been there sooner, but it took us some time to track you down," he says sounding apprehensive, standing self-consciously by my bed, eyeing the door.

"I'm just surprised that both of you showed up – that  _anyone_  did," I said my voice returning, as I took another sip of water.

"Of course we would – why wouldn't we show up?" he says alarmed by my statement, before recovering. John took a deep breath gestured to the bed, I nodded, and he settled himself on the edge taking a sip from his coffee.

"You might not have made it in time. That's just what I meant. I might have been – well - I was lucky," I say with a small smile.

"I knew," he says quietly, guilt etched on his face. "I knew the whole time, and I'm so sorry – I can only imagine that Sherlock is too. We didn't want to put you in danger, but the situation was – there was no other way."

"When did he tell you?" I asked him. I imagined John Watson's startled face in my flat, and his apology in Bart's. Did Sherlock phone him when he spotted Moran in Hull, then? Every single moment was a performance for Moran and me.

"After he'd been at yours for the second time catching sight of your  _date_. He soon told me that he was alive, more or less. You could imagine my surprise," says John with a tiny laugh. "Yet we didn't have proper contact, but I had to pretend I didn't know a thing. Even coming up to your flat that one night. Moran had the entire flat decked out with cameras a long while back, and we had to play it properly. So, we had to give him a show, more or less. I  _am_  sorry Molly."

"It's not your fault," I say biting my lip, furrows in my brows, as John looks at me ashamedly.

"Don't blame him. Sherlock didn't want this, but he knew we had to take it slow – to clear his name, and get rid of them entirely," he says looking tired.

"How could you clear his name?" I say surprised.

"It wasn't a tracker in that bit of jewellery – a recording device," says John with a small grin. "Luckily we got some of what we needed from that to find you."

"He didn't work with anyone I hope?" I ask gingerly. I really did hope there was no one else waiting in the shadows, ready to strike when the opportune moment came forward.

"No, not from what we heard. Everyone who worked with him was paid subordinates. He did threaten Sherlock with assassins, but Sherlock threatened to return – Moran was a true sadist – he wanted to play a game – at his old bosses orders. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a death-wish, more or less," says John rather irritated.

"How did Sherlock know that Martin – or well – Moran was Moran?" I ask.

John bit his lip at this, brows furrowed, as he seemed to be very amused by this question. I look at him baffled. "Yes, well –  _that's_  a very good question."

"Did he go on one of those long deductions of his again?" I say, gaping slightly at John awaiting the answer. I could only imagine him piling up example on example. He might have been distracted when Jim had first entered the room, but I was sure he couldn't have been when Moran did. Now he'd see through his disguise whatever form it was.

John just laughs at this, coughing a bit, before saying if not rather slowly, "It was instinct. Those were his exact words."

"Instinct?" I say in disbelief. "What do you mean instinct?"

"He had a feeling that Moran wasn't a good man."

"He didn't have any evidence?"

"No."

"No, clues? He always picks up on everything. Didn't his shoelaces or something spell obvious bad guy?" I ask baffled.

"No, he just said it was  _instinct_. Sherlock showed some pictures of Sebastian Moran, and I recognised him."

"You knew him?" I say raising my brows.

"Yes – I thought I did. I don't think anyone properly knew him, which is probably why people called him the man who can -  _could_  change his face. He was a soldier, very stern and seemed a good man," he says rather bitterly. "We found it odd that the same man was passing off as an artist by the name of Martin. The real Martin Ames had died years ago in a car accident, and his mother – recently died of cancer. So his instinct wasn't  _really_  off either."

"I'd never peg him for that sort of thing."

"I know," says John smirking before drinking from his cup of coffee eyeing me. I just frown at him. "He was worried you know. You'd lost a lot of blood – he carried you here – we were lucky we had a car. He didn't change clothes – until he knew you were ok." I gape at him. "He really is sorry, I don't think he wanted yet another boyfriend of yours to be – a  _complete_  psychopath." I end up drinking the rest of the contents of my glass of water.

* * *

Mum showed up not long after that, all a flutter, hysterical, and sobbing on me – I had yet to shed a tear. I didn't really know why I wasn't in hysterics, but I suppose I was too relieved to be alive at the moment – to take the whole thing in. It was difficult to explain to her that Sherlock was in fact not Martin, as she saw his face plastered on the front pages ("Isn't that – what the bloody hell are they calling him a hero for?") So, I informed her about the whole thing, and she accepted the story albeit a bit confused that the besotted man was indeed not love-struck.

Even worse was Julie who whispered to me, as mum was mothering me – "Never let your mum set you up again, OK?" I just nodded hastily, and we didn't speak of it anymore. Detective Inspector Lestrade did indeed show up, quite calmly, and asked me some questions – but he seemed to be under the impression that Sherlock had never lived with me. I didn't correct him. Neither did I correct him when it was said that John helped Sherlock fake his suicide. The newspapers seemed to publish the same story – and the fact that Sherlock was behind a  _campaign_ , which started on the Internet "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

It explained the use of my laptop. He was trying slowly to clear his name, depicting cases and making Moriarty real. All while I was dating Moriarty's henchman and friend Moran. The little snippets of conversation, which I found completely ordinary, were roaming with subtext. I couldn't be entirely sure of course, but the whole thing made me anxious. The fact that Sherlock didn't come to visit me didn't help. Well, he did, but I was always asleep when he'd stop by. There were plenty of people who'd come in with flowers and cards – I stayed longer than needed in the hospital.

My cuts were healing nicely, none of the damage implied that I would have any difficulty with taking care of myself, but they wouldn't let me leave – the staff were extra nice, and so was the psychologist who came in. He forced me to talk about it properly. We went through every aspect, every moment, and I even described the kiss – which I dreaded was my last. I did cry, horribly so, and it was no real surprise as to this, but I still felt singular. After some time I was finally released, allowed to go back home, and mum would luckily go back to Hull (after some rather forceful suggestion from Julie who knew I couldn't stand more mothering).

The flat seemed the same, when I unlocked the door, except all the boxes with clutter left by Sherlock were gone. My sofa was once again mine, and I saw that things had been tidied up. I dropped my bag, before walking gingerly around the flat – plants were still alive, and Toby came soon mewing by my legs – not displeased. I stalked over to the fridge, before finding new food in the fridge –

"I bought you food. I thought you might need it," says a voice, and I turn around finding Sherlock Holmes walking out of my bedroom with the same regular dark hair – the purple shirt, and dark dress jacket. He was his old self again. Here was neither Benedict nor Martin. He was again Sherlock Holmes – the consulting detective.

"You're here and  _not_  – ginger," I say gaping at him ever so slightly. He raises his brows at me.

"I can tolerate the deerstalker – to a certain degree, but if the papers were to take photo's – I could never live it down," he says with a smirk. I just shut my mouth, before uncomfortably crossing my arms.

"You tidied?" I say gesturing my head to the spotless flat.

This was his way of apologizing then?

"I made a mess. I cleaned up," he just says, brows furrowed.

He never seemed keen on listening to me when he did live here.

"Fed Toby, then?" I ask eyeing Toby who is purring by his ankles.

"I couldn't let him starve, could I now," he says bending down, and giving Toby a scratch behind the ears, before standing up again "I'd better go – my work here is done." At this he walks towards the door.

"Sherlock," I almost half-yell at him.

He wheels around in surprise, curiosity etched on his features. "There's this question, which I've still not gotten the answer to – really – everything else is settled – there's just this one thing – err – I understand the necklace, but why did you give me a nightgown?" I ask biting my lips. He raises his brows at this, and I end up saying rather hurriedly "It was you – wasn't it? I do hope it was you."

"Obviously," he says creasing his brows at me, as if I've said something utterly silly. I gaze at him stupidly, before recovering quite hurriedly.

"OK," I say in wonder.

"I am rather fond of hearing whole sentences coming from you," he says quirking a brow at me, closing the distance between us.

I gape at him a little, as he's standing just breathing distance from my face. "I – oh," I start, but before I can get a proper word in – "I do hope you intent to say more than just that in the future," he says, his eyes landing on my lips.

Before I know it his lips crash gently on mine, my hands slip around his throat, as I open my mouth to him.

He replies eagerly to this, and I find myself pressed up against the kitchen counter. Our bodies pressed up against one another, his hands roaming freely, before holding me around the waist. My hands tangle themselves in his dark locks. He takes a fierce grip off my waist, before picking me up with ease, and placing me on the counter – still kissing me fervently – his hands slipping under my top. A moan escapes from me and he breaks the kiss. There's a curious expression on his face, as he leans on my forehead breathing on my face rather hoarsely. He removes his hands that caressed my waist, before saying rather curtly - "Goodbye Doctor Hooper," walking off.

I just stare as the door to my flat is hurriedly slammed shut behind him, and I'm sitting on the kitchen counter utterly riled up. What was that then? He had now made himself my most memorable kiss, pushing aside my most recent haunting encounter. I slowly moved off the kitchen counter, dropping down onto the floor, before exhaling. At least this time it wasn't imagination on my part.


	18. Don't be that way

You could say – Molly Hooper, what more proof do you need than that? Did not the kiss tell you? Did not Sherlock Holmes more or less clarify - all the minor suspicions you've been having over what feels like the longest time? I'd love to agree with you of course, but then again the whole thing made me even more confused than before.  _Why_  - you ask?

The man bloody walked off.

Who walks off after kissing someone like that? Especially in the manner I'd like to say was quite passionate. No one, caresses someone's lips like that, or gingerly strokes the skin on the small of their back – without any  _intentions_. Then again we are talking about Sherlock Holmes, who would most likely come with a quick retort of how this took place.

What sort of retort – you ask?

I could imagine myriads of them; I managed to make more of them - more or less take place in my head, by the time the door shut.

I could just see him now, dark curls, blue piercing eyes staring into mine as he says, "I'm gay". Then he'd skip off with John Watson, before they'd stop with the whole consulting detective's thing, and start with flower arranging or something.

OK, I am being a bit mental, but – why did he go? Does this mean that the man cannot cope with something I like to call  _– feelings_? Possibly, but then again running off might not be the excellent conclusion to that sort of thing really. Then again it does sound like something he'd do. I spent more or less the rest of the evening staring aimlessly at my flat's door. Trying to see if he'd be barging in again, before telling me - "Doctor Hooper, I kissed you purely of scientific reasoning. I have never given the deed the proper attention, and I needed to do it for a case," _or_  – he'd start kissing me fervently, pinning me up against the wall, before we'd slip into the bedroom.

Then again – did I want to sleep with Sherlock Holmes? Wait, that's a stupid question, but you know – I'm not really sure if this will go anywhere. What if he'd do this thing again, show up, snog, and leave – then do that with sex, and we'd never talk about it. I'd be on my bloody nerves end. He cares, yes, which cannot be denied – even how hard my mind is trying to come with a clever reasoning as to why that happened.

_He didn't want Moran to be your last kiss._

Yes, well – he carried you all bloodied up to the hospital, and didn't leave you until he was certain you were good – even then they had to bring him new clothes to the hospital.

_We're just friends._

No one seems to believe that though – of everyone you know, (despite only my mum and Julie being properly informed) – I've gotten loads of people who just went "Is something going on?" Since there are photos of him, his clothes bloodied up, with my blood and I was now known as "a woman who counts in Sherlock Holmes' book," in the tabloids. It was  _the Sun_ , but then again – why try to go into that direction to begin with?

In the end, due to lack of sleep over said subject, and the fact that I could barely eat - resulting in me managing to break my plate with my breakfast on it the next day – I rang Julie. She got the appropriate reaction of course.

"When you say -  _ran off_  - do you mean – did he literarily make a mad dash out of your flat, or would you say he took to – striding off – in sure Sherlock Holmes-style?" asks the uneasy voice of Julie, who's really taking to think this through obviously.

"Well – he didn't run –  _run_  – he more or less – stalked off."

"That sounds about right," says Julie sounding rather happy.

"So, you understand why he ran off?" I ask happily.

"No, not at all. He is Sherlock Holmes – from everything you've told me – it's quite obvious that he's strange."

"That's your conclusion –  _really_  – that he's strange?" I say with a sigh.

"Yes."

"Right," I mutter rather frustrated.

It was an utterly pointless conversation. Of course I spent most of the day staring blankly on the telly. Switching only between channels, before making myself loads of tea, which I ended up forgetting – because I kept bloody reliving the kiss the night before. I became glad when people would phone me. Even if it were just one of those –  _are you good_ -sort of conversations, before they'd berate me for getting back to work. I knew that if I weren't going back to work they'd probably berate me for doing that too. Yes, I think it's a good idea.

Of course I can understand other people's trepidation over the fact that I'd been cut by the same instruments I myself use – in my daily life, but I knew the trauma that would come if I put it off more or less.

The day ended though in the oddest phone call from John Watson, which to begin with started silent. When I took up the phone I was confused, as there was no one speaking on the other end. So I hung up after not recognising the number. It rang up again, I said hello, but no one spoke – I could just hear a great deal of what can be described as uneasy breathing.

"Hello," I repeat into the silence.

Until John suddenly without breath takes the phone saying, "Hello Molly – the line was faulty!" he sounds like he's half-shouting. There's some throat clearing before he continues sounding more normal – "Hi, it's John – you – good – fine - being home again?"

I laugh a little, I'd been receiving phone-calls most of the day, but none as entertaining as this one, "Yes, I'm fine."

"Going back to work then?" he asks, rather gruffly.

"Yes, tomorrow," I say furrowing my brows. There was something odd with his voice.

"Good –  _good_.  _We're_  good here too," he says sounding amused now. Was Sherlock there with him? Sherlock didn't seem to me as the person who'd care for phone-calls really. Sherlock always texts if he needs something.

"Right," I say feeling confused. John and me did indeed have long dreary conversations at the hospital, as he'd show up with a cup of coffee – after visiting Mary – saying it was just nearby. He'd come with odd stories of the sequence of texts Sherlock would send him from my place, which were more or less fetching him things. It sounded familiar. "Is there something wrong?" I ask when John turns rather silent.

"No, of course not," says John sounding if not rather surprised by that question.

"Well, considering that you acted around me. I've got to ask now, don't I?" I say, chuckling – not at all being serious.

"Do I _sound_  odd to you?" he asks sounding upset.

"Just a little actually," I say rather carefully.

"There's nothing to worry about," says John, not sounding whatsoever reassuring, before saying a rather cheerfully "Well,  _we'll_ probably see you tomorrow then." He hung up after that, and I ended staring at the phone in awe. John had definitively been a much better actor when it came to the whole situation regarding Moran. So one has to wonder why he was lying so poorly on the phone now. One had to wonder why on earth he was lying to begin with – unless – no – maybe? _No._

I appear at work the next day, feeling all at odds, when people see me. There was some general whispering. I knew the articles had more or less depicted me being the "damsel in distress" and Sherlock the great hero – I didn't really care, as I didn't really expect much more from the tabloids either. The day went as usual, I oversaw some corpses, did some paper work, worked in the lab, and took a lunch break. Life took an ordinary turn more or less, which wasn't unusual when Sherlock Holmes wasn't around.

When I was about to finish up of course I was going to go fetch my phone, which I'd forgotten in the lab. Who do you think was in the lab having a rather heated discussion with John Watson? I blinked, before entering, as I could distinct their voices out in the hallway.

"All of Bart's can hear you," I say laughing, seeing their rather serious faces.

At which John moves away from Sherlock saying "Molly –  _hello_ \- I've got to go - see - Mary. Right, I'll talk with you later," with that he gave Sherlock a look, before walking out of the lab.

"What's going on?" I ask Sherlock who stands by the microscope, not really looking up, but I could see he was distinctively aggravated.

"We have different opinions concerning a case," Sherlock says.

I look at him doubtfully; as there is obviously something more going on that he wasn't letting me in on (as usual).

Standing there I am soon reminded of the previous evenings events, which are still quite memorable. Turning a frightful shade of red, I mutter, "Oh, right – well – then I do hope you sort that out."

"Yes, I don't think he'll be so hard to convince," he says with a quick smile, still looking into the microscope.

"Right," I say weakly, about to pass him to look for my mobile, except Sherlock soon stretches out his palm impressively – with the phone in hand. I stare at it, creasing my brows.

"You had my phone?" I ask him in surprise, snatching it from his hands gingerly. "Why did you have my phone?"

"I found it on the counter, I pocketed it – isn't that what _friends_  do?" he asks standing rather imposingly now, looking at me, which automatically makes me want him to look through the microscope again.

"You're Sherlock Holmes – last time I saw you with another female's phone-," I start, grinning until my smile falters, "What is really going on?" I ask him perplexed.

He raises his brows at me, "Why do you think something is going on?" He stands rather close now; I don't take a step back.

"Because you're answering my question with another question – and John acted odd on the phone yesterday – and just now," I say frowning at him, as he more or less breathes down on me. "So what are the two of you playing at – I'd rather not be left out right now – if something  _is_  going on."

"Molly, I can assure you that nothing is going on," says Sherlock looking rather severe, while I look at him in suspicion.

I open my mouth to retort, but the door burst open – we separate quite quickly enough at the sight of Lestrade who looks if not a great deal amused "Sherlock – _Molly_ ," he says, eyeing me grinning. Behind him John stands looking rather disgruntled.

"I assume you have come here about a case, then?" asks Sherlock looking rather expectantly at him.

Lestrade looks genuinely confused at this, while John looks particularly sour. "Wait –  _what_  – have I missed something?" says Lestrade eyeing John behind him, who seems to be smiling a little bit, before Lestrade continues "Well, there is a case I think you'll be interested in – yeah – if you aren't busy - that is?" Lestrade looks at me after he's ended the speech.

"Yes,  _well_  – goodbye Doctor Hooper," says Sherlock, without looking my way, and he soon walks out of the lab – with both Lestrade and John who end up standing there rather uneasily, before walking off after him.

I stood rather bewildered and flustered glaring at my own mobile phone. I went through the texts - finding nothing of any significance. There were no texts that had been sent - no calls been made, and no revealing images either (not that I expected that). Sherlock had not tampered with my phone whatsoever.

I was about to leave the room, when I remembered he'd probably not tidied up after himself. I sigh; reach over to the microscope – only to find nothing in its place – he had looked at  _absolutely_  nothing.


	19. For sentimental reasons

Of all the things I checked, double-checked, triple-checked; I did not consider looking at received calls. When I was out of Bart's by pure chance I discovered –the phone number was gone. The unfamiliar number that had phoned me last night was gone, but why? I hadn't really thought long and hard about the number to be honest. It was John's number, more or less, but now that it was blatantly obvious that Sherlock Holmes had gone directly into my phone – and deleted said number – interest was indeed in furtive return. I ended up rummaging through my handbag, trying to grasp hold of my notebook. I had written down the number by chance the night before, due to the silence on the other line. I suspected either journalist or pervert. So, there it was – the number, I dialled it ever so hurriedly. It rang several times, me patiently grimacing, before someone picked it up.

"Hello – who's this?" says the voice of Mrs Hudson.

I blanch for a moment, hastily recovering myself. John must have forgotten his mobile at Baker Street.

"It's Molly - John forgotten his phone, then?" I ask smiling through my silliness.

"Dearie - this is mine," says Mrs Hudson rather confused on the other end.

" _Your_  phone?" I ask startled.

"Yes," she replies.

"Oh, well – John used it last night, then?" I asked.

"He was spending the night at Mary Morstan's – so I don't think he would be using my phone, no," says Mrs Hudson chuckling. "The only one who did borrow my phone was Sherlock."

" _Sherlock_ ," I say astonished.

"He frequently borrows my phone for those cases of his, so I didn't think much of it – why are you asking? Shall I go and fetch him?" she says, and I can more or less hear her move around in Baker Street.

"No, no – no need," I say rather quickly almost jumping up and down, "Thank you Mrs Hudson. Just a bit of a mix-up with some numbers just."

"No problem dearie," she says.

After that I hung up, but managed by accident to drop my handbag – spreading the contents on the ground. Disgruntled I started picking it up, but I overheard two familiar voices speaking in the distance.

"You're deliberately sabotaging," says the voice of John Watson sounding irritated. I took to halt, using a bit longer time in plucking the objects.

" _I_  am? You've been more or less badgering Sherlock about this ordeal – since this wager started. You've been spending more time at Baker Street, and dropping those helpful hints at the hospital to Molly Hooper," says Lestrade rather disgruntled.

"That's not sabotage. You tried to give him a case," says John disgruntled. I stared, still hunched down on the ground, picking up the various objects into my handbag cautiously – gaping at the two men in mild curiosity.

A wager? A wager.  _What?_

"Not a  _real_ case. It's not my fault that he'd rather take it, than spend time with Molly Hooper alone in the lab," says Lestrade grinning cheekily, as a car stops right by them.

"You're not going to manage to win either if it goes at this rate," says John frowning, yet a smile was playing at his lips. "Chances of them even kissing at this point is minimal."

"Good thing – that _isn't_  what the wager is about. It's not my fault that Mycroft Holmes is a git," says Lestrade frowning, before getting into the car with John following him inside. I finally stood up from the ground, glaring at the taxi as it drove off.

They had made a bet about Sherlock and me. What was it about? It certainly didn't involve kissing, which they apparently didn't know had already happened. I really sincerely hoped this wasn't why Sherlock had kissed me in the first place? I didn't know what to be more distressed about – the fact that Sherlock Holmes had pretended to be John Watson (quite convincingly, excepting some oddities) on the phone, or the fact that the real John Watson was betting about me and his best friend. What were they gambling about? I didn't really want to imagine, really, as I went to my flat more or less perplexed.

After long consideration I concluded that I would send Sherlock a text. It was easy. It would just be a question more or less. Hopefully he'd answer quickly, but five minutes went – no answer. Ten minutes went – no answer. Fifteen minutes flew by, and I was severely agitated at this point. He did usually answer quite quickly - punctually in fact, especially if he was involved with a case. But maybe he was genuinely busy? Maybe he had indeed taken that case? The answer came as the man himself barged into my flat, without so much as a hello, looking rather wind-swept. It made it evident he would like to be there in person. I gaped at him a little bit, almost turning crimson. He soon saw my clothing, looking quite flustered himself, before returning to the typical confident swagger I was used to seeing.

"Molly," he just says with a curt nod, mirroring the behaviour he had the same night he'd kissed me. I stared at him for a while, as he quietly removed his coat. "You want in, then?" he added in my silence. I recovered swiftly, before walking towards the kitchen starting to brew some tea.

"Yes, if people are wagering about me I had better involve myself. I don't want them to win," I say rather affronted.

"It would rather destroy the purpose– if the ones that the wager were about – could also join, don't you think?" he asks.

"Why are you here, then? You could have easily texted that to me – if that's your final answer," I say quirking a brow in surprise at him. He looks at me interested.

"I thought you would have other questions, perhaps?" he says seating himself in the sofa, looking at me rather confidently. I had a feeling he was staring at my legs, while I stretched for a couple of cups in the cupboard. I turned, and his attention was apparently on Toby who appeared on his lap, as usual – that cat really chose the dark side considering.

"I don't know if I really need the answers to be honest," I say trying to sound rather uninterested, which I more or less wasn't. The questions were blatantly obvious – one of which I was currently wearing, and the pair of staring eyes of Sherlock Holmes did prove a real pleasing answer to that one.

I handed him the cup of tea, and I think he assumed I would choose the seat across him, but I seated myself besides him on the sofa. I could see from the quick raising of the brows, which he diverted by taking a sip from his tea – that he was more or less astonished by this action. I just crossed my legs, and smiled at him pleasantly.

"You didn't sound uninterested earlier," he says furrowing his brows at me.

"I don't know –  _the Sun_  did make a fair point – don't you think?" I say drinking my tea smiling sweetly.

"A point which everyone else took note of. They seem to be under the assumption that no man and woman can be under the same roof, without one or the other developing feelings," he says sounding rather mystified by this notion.

"The Sun didn't seem very aware of that," I say quirking a brow.

Obviously everyone we knew were thinking that, which was more or less why they'd made a wager. Wankers.

"No, I thought it was better to leave your reputation un-tarnished as the young female pathologist at Bart's. I'd never have my way if any one else came and took your place," he says rather smugly.

I gape at him, "I'm sorry, but after all we've been through – I think there's a very slim chance that I'll allow you to do anything with any of my corpses from now on."

"I wasn't aware that they were  _your_ corpses," he quips.

I frown at him, "They might as well be, considering the way you man-handle them in the same way you man-handle me," I say rather scathingly.

He looked at me rather intrigued, before saying "I did promise I would never be sweet Molly," – at which I spat some of the tea I had just swallowed, "You are aware the reason of my wrist being – rather _bruised_  the morning after?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"Are you saying I jumped you?" I say distraught looking at him wide-eyed.

"I wouldn't say that you attacked me. No, it was rather pleasant. I wasn't one to argue with your sleeping form, but I had to take necessary precautions to keep you at a distance. Took quite the strain on my wrist," he says with a mock-serious expression on his face.

I could slap him. I could just slap that grin off his face.

"I take it back - I want answers – why on Earth did you phone me yesterday pretending to be John Watson?" I ask. The rather brilliant grin of his falters, and he looks like he's swallowing bile.

"I know you borrowed Mrs Hudson's phone – I also know that John was at Mary's, and I sincerely doubt he'd take the time to run to Baker Street to borrow her phone for a quick phone-call," I say frowning at him.

He looks like he's quickly conducting an answer at this point.

"To be honest I had thought – that if I were to play it off as I wanted to speak with you. You would be more or less angry that I wasn't. Especially considering what recently took place in your kitchen," he says glancing into the direction of the kitchen, before looking intently at me.

"That's it, then?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says.

"That's a lie," I say exasperated. He looks at me in surprise at this, his lips curving up in a smile. I give a big sigh, eyeing him, while drinking slowly on my cup of tea.

"How did you come with that conclusion?" he asks.

"Your breath," I say with a sheepish smile. "It sounded nervous. I wouldn't think John himself would be that nervous to talk with me really." Sherlock looks at me rather quietly, his expression quite austere. "I want this to be more than a fun game to you, because at the moment you're sitting here – lying to me, and – you waltz in here – for what? What do you want? You buy a nightgown-," I say rather heatedly.

"A gift-," he blurts out.

"You end up finding out some information about the man I was dating on  _instinct_ , which I know you hate. You don't go after gut-feelings. I've never heard you have gut-feelings about anything. I'd love to hear the truth now, please, or you could just go – because if you kissed me due to this stupid wager – I – I-," I say rather maddened, placing my tea on the table with a thud. I stood up from the sofa, before striding off into a huff towards the kitchen.

"I had a gut feeling about you," I hear him say, as I stand in the kitchen with my back to him. I slowly turn around and stare rather stupidly at him.

He's standing now, walking rather slowly towards me. "I did not like Martin or the rest. I never really understood why unlike other people I could never find myself properly deducing you – I avoided it like the plague."

"You did it at Christmas," I say rather weakly. He's still talking slow deliberate steps my way.

"Yes. Every single wording a cruelty – on the sheer idea that you were giving away your heart to someone else," he says. "Of course the gift was addressed to me," he says with a smile, a distance still between us. "After I had publically ostracized you – you still helped me. Saving not only my life, but also others - risking your own. Even offering your home. I return and you are happy with another man," he says standing in front of me now – he reaches out, pushing aside a strand of hair falling into my face.

My breathing comes in rather shallow waves at this point. "Jealousy – I couldn't really account for it. I knew that he was no good. I applaud my find - only to realize that I am going to ruin whatever little happiness you've got. I found little difficulty informing you when Moriarty was at play, but then you didn't seem to be doing it for yourself. Here you were smiling, happy at another man's hands – a man who wasn't even real. What else could I do? I had to stop him. I made excuses constantly, berating myself, and hating myself for not telling you – for playing his game, but I knew – he would have you killed. He almost did have you-," at this his voice falters, but he continues strongly on "You never were afraid of me Molly, and you were never afraid of him. _I_  was afraid of you," he pauses at this, drawing a bit breath, before continuing – "I kissed you, because I was free to do so without someone watching – without any agenda, except that I wanted to. For you do count - in more ways than one." His eyes are as earnest, as the day he asked me for my help. "So I hope you can forgive me Molly, for leaving, but I won't go anywhere now."

I stare at him astounded, almost gaping at this rather unsure figure standing before me. This was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who never made sweet speeches, or compliments without intensions. Here he was breathing deeply, as if depending on my answer as a matter of life or death.

The smile that breaks out on my face is immense, with flushed cheeks – making his confused face even more baffled if possibly, before I pull him by his lapels kissing him soundly and happily. His shocked expression marvelling that of my heart, as he with relief kisses me fervently in return.


	20. At last

_What does Sherlock Holmes taste like?_

Good question.

I'd like to go into vexing detail, as I don't even tell Julie this. I don't think she'd want to know really. When I sit contemplating it, I often end up chewing the end of my pen, and of course he shows up at this. He takes note of my dilated pupils and tries to touch my wrist.

You can never have an argument with the man, especially not a heated argument with him. He will have an once-over with you more or less. There he'll stand pointing out the flaws in your speech and your bated breath. Strictly speaking I do enjoy it when he gets a bit mad. Just the normal amount you know, I'm sure everyone else feels like this. If not, I'm not one for caring.

Yes, err - what does he taste like?  _Right._

He tastes like adrenaline. I know you can't taste adrenaline, but it is sort of the sensation of blood rushing to the head, more or less. He also tastes like reading books on a rainy day, and a mixture of sweet and tart really. Not literarily, but let me indulge in the fantasy.

His smell is rather like calculative masculinity – if there's any sort of thing. There probably isn't, as there only is one of him. He has many long words strung together describing me, which he takes turns in whispering at utterly inappropriate moments. I think it is mainly because he loves to see me flush under his gaze – _the bastard_.

Not that I don't enjoy the feeling of his long fingers sliding slowly up my thigh, while whispering what he'll do to me the moment John Watson leaves the room.

Our first proper kiss however, throwing the rushed fervent one aside, which came from a mixture of desire, longing, all wrapped into one – was different, slow, calculative, and even a bit unsure.

I've never been kissed like that before, not so proper. At least not in a very long time – it felt like so. The sort of kiss that makes one gasp for air, with flushed cheeks, and which makes one even feel a bit swoony.

Being held by him simultaneously was the oddest of sensations. The most erotic thing I had ever seen him grasping was the microscope at Bart's, but now his hands were firmly gripping my waist. All a while he tentatively bit on my upper lip, sliding his tongue on my lip, before gently slipping into my mouth – hands pulling me towards him, pressing us firmly against each other.

It was the oddest mixture of sensations and feelings. At one hand, I was elated, because I had been imagining this for ages, more or less – on the other hand I was terrified. He gently separates from me; I'm more or less drawing breath, heart pounding into my ears, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, and there's a sense of unfamiliarity with this, with the voice that comes out from his mouth – almost nervous even. The sheer idea that Sherlock Holmes could be nervous was beyond me really.

Of course nothing's wrong – I'm kissing you, you're kissing me  _\- we're kissing._

"I – it's just – this is really if I can say, a bit –  _overwhelming_ ," I say taking a step simultaneously away from him. I can see his expression turn to smug at that, at which I roll my eyes.

"Don't give me that, don't even attempt to give me that. I'm not – honestly – it's just – if we continue – I won't – there won't be any going back."

"Going back?" he repeats as if this is a foreign subject. Him even mouthing the words is odd.

"There's no turning back after this. I don't really know – of course we – you know – but – you know – do you – have you?" I say in what seems to be the quickest utterance of words, similar to his deductions.

Except it's not even words, its just half-used slurs - my tongue just sort of slobs in my mouth, as if petrified.

"Have I had sex?" he quips coolly.

I gape hurriedly, before shutting my mouth sheepishly, feeling if even remotely possible more flushed.

"Yes," I say rather slowly with a release of breath.

At this he takes a step towards me, slips his hand around my wrist, gingerly stroking the inside with his thumb – a brow playfully arched – " _Guess,"_  he murmurs, eyes straying from my eyes to my lips, as he strokes with his other free hand on my bottom lip, before his hand caresses my rather hot cheek.

I stare at him rather alarmed, "If we do this, things will change."

"I had expected as much," he says, leaning towards my mouth, but I slip a finger timidly resting on his lips.

He just looks at me with muted amusement, his one hand slipping around the wrist of my hand on his face, but he isn't pulling my hand away.

"There really won't be any going back," I say looking furtively downwards, before bringing my eyes up, as he holds my wrist gently, now at a distance from his face.

"Exactly what entails  _not_ going back?" he asks.

I smile at him at this, despite myself, before carefully saying "I won't be at your beck and call anymore. Our relationship will be  _different_. Can you cope with that?"

He furrows his brows at this, before he looks at me seriously, "I had never expected you to be my pathologist in the bedroom - no."

I laugh at this biting my lip, "I'm not  _yours_ , no. You are not mine to keep either."

"I always thought people were adamant on belonging."

"One can belong, without owning –  _wait_  – you said bedroom," I say, blinking rather furiously in the realization of his words. "They'll win the wager," I say in mock-exasperation.

"There are other things one can do, that does not possibly entail either ownership or  _sex_ ," he says breathing out words, which causes small shivers in my spine, as he puts a finger under my chin lifting my face up, but not to kiss me.

He just breathes, as I stand mouth open in wonder. "I don't want to own you Molly. Possession has never been a want for my sake. I do _want_  you. That I do, but if it is in many months' time – or tonight – I will wait patiently for you to be ready," he says, eyes dropping a little bit on my scars.

_Oh_ , of course.

"You'll  _wait_  for me to be ready?" I say looking at him in half-amused disbelief.

A crease appears in his forehead, "I never said I wasn't ready," I say, causing his mouth to form the perfect "Oh," as I grin at him.

He smirks, before his lips gently brush down on mine. "If you want, we can, you know - wait," I say breaking away from him, before he impatiently presses his mouth more firmer upon mine smiling, as I squeak in amusement.

His hands are once again on my waist, as he kisses me tenderly, before moving to my neck applying kisses on my collarbone. He swiftly picks me up to my startled expression, as we enter the bedroom - door kicked carelessly aside.

I've still got my nightgown on, and when he slowly lays me down on top of the bed – blue eyes boring into mine - I start to tug on the end – "Don't," he just whispers, a serious expression on his face. He hovers over me, applying kisses on the corner of my mouth, my neck, and one on my hand.

Calmly, slowly - every single gesture is being done, while I rather impatiently start pulling him towards me unbuttoning his shirt.

He grins at my nerve, a smile I love seeing more or less, as he kisses me on the mouth again. A deeper, fuller kiss, which distracts me from the fierce unbuttoning I tried at.

He just keeps teasing me, kissing, nibbling, and biting at my skin. He goes slowly, I flush under the slowness, as I get more frustrated. In the end I grab him by his lapels, bring him into another kiss, before managing to  _overpower_  him. He just smirks at me.

I'm on top, sitting right on top of his arousal, feeling him blatantly through the fabric of his trousers. I look at him cheekily, as I bring his hand between my thighs, letting him rest on my –  _lack of._

He obviously didn't deduce that, as there's an intake of breath. I just raise my brows at him amused, evident that he is no longer entirely as willing to keep it slow, but I remove his hand.

He looks at me in curiosity, as I slowly start undressing him, revealing his well-sculpted torso. He raises himself up in the bed, pulling me more on top of him, kissing me much more hurriedly, as he overthrows me on bed causing me to giggle.

The laughter dies out of my eyes the moment I see his face. A hand of mine reaching out touching his cheek, and before I know it – he's absolutely naked in front of me. My eyes flash hurriedly downwards; he catches this, a ghost of a smile on his face.

He claims my mouth in yet another kiss - our bodies entirely entangled. His hands smoothly caressing my skin, as he slowly slips off the nightgown – once its off – his mouth lands on a nipple, another hand slips on my breast caressing me slowly, before kissing himself downwards.

I see his need, but he ends up kissing me between my thighs. He licks gently, as I writhe underneath him – nails digging into his shoulders, while he pushes in further licking - slipping fingers in gently.

I moan, causing him to suddenly press more firmly, while I cling to the mattress. He moves up kissing me, causing me to cross my legs behind his back.

He looks at me for a moment, breathing rather hoarsely, as I kiss his lips as an answer to his obvious question. His arousal pressing against me, I kiss him on his eyelids, and take an intake of breath due to anticipation.

He pushes through, I gasp at the sensation of him. It takes him a lot of effort it seems to not go too speedily, as I moan loudly clinging to him. The pace quickens, as he moans gruffly into my ear.

Kissing my neck, lips, between every push and pull, while I trash underneath him – his warmth clinging onto my skin. His hand holds onto the headboard, as the bed bangs onto the wall nosily amidst our moans.

The sensation that hits my body is unearthly, the feeling spreading all-over my body, as I yell. He moans with me, sweat on his brow, as we breathe hoarsely on each other – entirely spent.

He leans his face on my chest, lying between my breasts, catching a nipple in his mouth, teasingly licking it, before kissing me deeply on the mouth.

There's a flush crawling on my heated skin, as he pulls himself away, landing on his back breathing unevenly, before he grabs the duvet jerking it over our bodies. He stretches his arm to the side allowing me to rest on his chest, my heart still pounding soundly, as I lay on him.

"You've done that before, then?" I ask with a hoarse laugh, looking up at him, as he strokes some hair away from my face.

His expression that I used to describe as "unreadable" is so obvious now - that it almost hurt looking at him.

"Once, or twice," he says attentively swallowing rather heavily. "You're not jealous," he adds in my silence, as I pinch his nipple, causing him to raise a brow at me in surprise.

"It must have been the fact that you were ginger. Really, it had to be," I say thinking rather out loud.

"Sorry?" he says kissing my neck, while I say, "You've never done that before," causing him to halt in the kissing looking at me with those eyes of his curiously narrowed.

"You deduced that –  _how_?" he asks, brows creased.

I smile rather knowingly, "Your sense of wonder," I say.

"That could easily be-," he starts caressing one of my breasts rather lazily, "You are the first I've enjoyed the act with," he admits. "I've never really  _finished_."

"Oh," I say in awe. "Well, at least I won the wager, now. You better leave my bed. I'm waiting for your brother so he can deliver the sum of money," I add mock-seriously.

Sherlock looks at me startled for a moment, before snorting, "Very amusing Doctor Hooper."

"I thought I wasn't a pathologist in the bedroom," I say giggling, as he nibbles on my neck.

"We will have to do more of _that_  to be entirely certain," he murmurs, mouth catching mine into another kiss, before my arms slip around his neck. Now it was definitively going to be his turn.

How is Sherlock Holmes in a relationship?

He has a tendency to walk around naked, as he's rather careless with just that – not bothering putting on a sheet. Once I came home and he was sat only reading a newspaper. It's odd working in the lab; he appears as usual with John lagging behind him. He brusquely comes out with a long narrative of his intensions, intending to pass me to fetch something – grabbing my arse, before striding off.

I never really hear much from him during cases, he does send the offbeat text, which says often one-word "Alive". He keeps me on my toes; I never get bored – even the most mundane things like eating breakfast become interesting. I often end up siding with John during arguments; he gets quite irritated by this, and starts accusing me for choosing sides – as I am supposed to be his girlfriend.

That was the first time he used the term, which neither of us had really mentioned, causing John to grin. I end up blaming him of trying to sway me with his choice of words. In the end he starts using it frequently, tossing it out casually in sentences – if we're out, or someone looks into my direction. I roll my eyes at him, reluctantly calling him my boyfriend in the end.

Then one night it happened, I'm at the morgue – he enters, hair a mess, while looking at me as if I've drawn my last breath. He walks over, hand placed softly on my cheek. He looks at me quite sincerely – blue eyes flickering over mine – he just smiles – gives me a kiss, before leaving. I remember standing there in flushed confusion, until I entirely understood what he wordlessly said.

If  _I_ do?

Yes, yes – of course.

It took me quite some time, before I finally recalled asking Mycroft Holmes who won the wager, as the others had all disgruntled informed me that none of them won.

He looked at me with a great deal of mirth, perching his lips, before saying rather ceremoniously, "Apparently it was a computer-technician going by the name _Benedict Lowe_ ," raising his brows at me suggestively, before walking off.


End file.
